The Velvet Dark
by EastAnglia
Summary: ISLAND AT WAR. Baron/Felicity. Can Felicity come to terms with her feelings for the Baron?
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** "The Velvet Dark"  
**Fandom:** Island at War  
**Pairing:** Baron/Felicity het  
**Feedback:** Praise only.  
**Notes:** This story came out of my frustration with not getting a second series of IAW. This will be several chapters, and the rating will probably change eventually. Hint hint. Thanks to all those at TRA who have already read and reviewed. You made my day.

**CHAPTER ONE**

She found it hard in the days that followed to remember whether it was the 24rd or the 25th, the 1st or the 3rd. She would even have to stop and think for a moment whether it was a Monday or a Tuesday. It hardly mattered, anyway. One day bled into the next, filled with purposeless meanderings at _Sous la Chaine, _pottering in the greenhouse or sitting alone in the semi-dark. She tried not to think of Philip and James or how they must be suffering. At least they were safe.

She avoided the Baron. There had been something unspoken between them in the weeks after he arrived on St. Gregory. They had met at the George Hotel his first day on the island. The bailiff's wife had been nattering on about something, and the Baron had clicked his heels and bowed in that 19th century way he had. Then he had held her gaze with his impossibly sharp blue-grey eyes for slightly longer than was necessary, and she felt as if an electric current had passed through her.

Now she had put words to what had been danced around but had always remained unspoken. She had offered herself to him. It was to save Philip, she kept reminding herself, and yes, that was true. But the thought of it would never have sprung so easily to her mind if a part of her hadn't at least entertained it before.

So, she avoided him, rather than meet that gaze and hear the low murmur of his voice and be reminded of what she had been willing to do.

She suspected he was avoiding her, too. They would pass each other on the steps into the house. He would nod politely and they would exchange courtesies, but he always had Flach or Muller with him, and there was no time to talk. The business of war went on for him. She would see him discussing plans and maps with his officers, always with that hard look of purpose on his face.

He really was a monster, or at the very least a machine without emotion or humanity. That was what she would tell herself. It made it easier.

But of course, Felicity knew better. He bore his tragedy with stoicism around his men and the islanders, but she had seen a glimpse of it. She had seen the tears pool in those eyes when he spoke of his dead son there on the porch. She avoided sitting in the garden, but she would see him there from her bedroom window late at night. Alone, drowning in his private grief. In those moments, he was all too human. And it terrified her.

She tried to fill the time as best she could. She went into town just to be in company, to hear English voices. But there were no invitations to meet at the Marigold Tea Rooms or cycle along the coast with friends. It occurred to her sadly one afternoon as she walked through the main square of town that in her twenty years here, she had never really made any friends, not close ones. Urban Mahy, perhaps. And he was dead.

There was one afternoon after James and Philip had left, she heard Mrs. DuVal call out to her on the street. She stopped, reluctantly, as the woman caught up with her and panted for breath.

"How are you getting on, Felicity? Just _you_ and that _awful Baron_ all _alone_ at Sous la Chaine?" She emphasised her words. Her meaning was clear.

"You mean just me, that awful Baron, and twenty or thirty landsers stomping around all hours of the day and night? I haven't had a solitary thought in weeks." It was a lie, of course, but she wouldn't give the old gossip the satisfaction of imagining anything inappropriate with the Baron. Even if Felicity, herself, had imagined it.

The old woman rolled her eyes heavenward and clicked her tongue. "So much the worse! You must quite fear for yourself, Felicity, dear! All those _men_ without _female companionship_ and you! The sole, _unprotected_ woman! It's quite barbaric!"

Felicity gave her a tight smile. "I think I'm quite capable of defending my honour, Mrs. DuVal."

She mounted her bicycle, but the older woman placed a bony hand on her wrist. "Are you? You must take care, Felicity. There has been _talk_."

"Oh? What sort of _talk_?" Felicity responded with disdain.

"About you. And the Baron. Up at the house. Together. Alone."

She opened her mouth, sure some barb would follow and Mrs. DuVal would be put in her rightful place, but nothing came. She hurriedly pedaled off towards home, gripping the handles to keep her hands from shaking.

That was the last time she went into town unless it was absolutely necessary. More often than not, she was finding she could do without the trip.

It was a week or so later that she came in from an early morning stroll through the barren orchard. The days had suddenly grown cold, but she welcomed it. It was good to feel some physical sensation other than fear and loneliness.

She came up into the house and became aware of what sounded like heavy furniture being dragged across the floor. She frowned and tilted her head, and then realised, yes, that's exactly what it was. She hurried up the stairs and followed the noise into the wing of the house she had shared with James. They were moving furniture, and it was in the master bedroom.

"What are you doing?" she demanded. Several slack-jawed landsers looked back at her for a moment and then went on dismantling the bed. One of them muttered something in German. There were snickers and glances in her direction. "This is _my_ bedroom! You have no right!"

One of them turned to her and shrugged. "There are orders, Frau Dorr," he muttered in his broken English.

"_Whose_ orders?" They were folding her mother's bedspread with their soiled, meaty hands and fingering lamps and pictures they had no business touching. Precious things from her other life in England. One landser picked up a picture of her holding Philip when he was a baby and carelessly tossed it aside as he moved a table. She could hear the tinkle of the glass shattering. She took in a deep breath through her nose to keep from crying. "Whose orders?"

The boy only shrugged again, and she backed out of the room. She blinked back tears and stumbled across the landing and down the corridor into the other wing of the house – _his_ wing – as she thought of it.

Muller was there, leaving the Baron's rooms with some papers. He frowned but said nothing, as if he couldn't quite believe that she had come to this side of the house.

"Mrs. Dorr! What are you doing?" He asked in surprise as she squeezed past him.

"I must talk to the Baron."

"I'm sorry, but you cannot." He placed a hand on her arm.

"Don't touch me!"

"Mrs. Dorr!" But she had pulled her narrow wrist from his grasp and was entering the Baron's room. "Mrs. Dorr, _please!"_

In her blind anger, she hadn't planned past this point, and she knew she had no idea what to say to him now. He was there, in the bathroom that ajoined his room. He stood at the sink, wearing his riding breeches with braces hanging down to his knees. He was wearing only a vest on top, face lathered, standing there with his razor in one hand.

She froze, and he turned his head to look at her. Their gazes met as they had that day in the George Hotel until she finally was able to look away.

"I'm sorry, sir, I couldn't…" Muller sputtered.

"Leave us, Muller."

"Sir, I…"

"_Leave us_,"he repeated firmly. Muller nodded with a frown and retreated.

She watched as he turned his face back to the mirror and took a stroke of the razor across his cheek. "I assume you have come about the room."

"You had no right. _No right_," she said, still shaking with anger.

"There was a burst pipe at one of the billets in town. Several of our officers have to be temporarily relocated until the damage can be repaired. You will not be inconvenienced any more than necessary," he said dispassionately. The water made small splashing noises as he rinsed the blade in the basin.

"Your lack of respect is shameful, Baron. It's not enough you've taken our car, our house, but you have to take my bedroom as well? That was _my_ room. _Mine."_

He said nothing for a moment as he methodically took a long stroke up his neck and rinsed the razor. "Forgive me, Mrs. Dorr, but it was my understanding it was not your room but your husband's room. Your room is on the other side of the corridor, is it not?"

He turned to her then and wiped the last of the lather from his face with a towel. She could feel the scarlet burn up her cheeks and her eyes dropped to the floor. He knew. It was enough that he knew James never sat with her in the garden. But he knew they no longer shared a bed.

There was no need to deny it. She suddenly felt exposed standing here, in his rooms, as he slowly walked toward her. He picked up his shirt from his bed and stood in front of her, silently fastening the buttons. She could feel his eyes on her as she struggled for words. "Some of those things in there belong to me," she managed to get out. "Pictures."

He pulled his braces across his shoulders with a sharp snap. "By all means. Remove your personal items from your husband's room. Anything else will be carefully stored. You have my word." He spoke in that way he had, his words were clipped, but his voice was soft and liquid.

She nodded and backed out of the room quickly, but she could still feel the burn on her cheeks after she stumbled downstairs and headed back into the chill air.

XXXXXXXXX

She spent hours in the greenhouse, not wanting to cross paths with him again that day. Finally, Delphine found her and brought her some tea and sandwiches after noon. It was the first she had eaten all day, and she devoured it.

Then it was back to the potting soil and bulbs. It was late in the afternoon. Summer was gone, and the sun was already low in the sky. There was to be some sort of dance at the George that evening, she had heard, and the house appeared to be empty as she headed back inside. The stillness was almost unbearable.

She sat in the drawing room smoking as the sun finally dipped below the horizon. James had never approved of women and cigarettes. She had always felt like a naughty schoolgirl hiding outside with her secret pack of fags. Now that he was gone, she could smoke inside, but it seemed like an empty victory.

There was only the sound of the steady ticking of the clock on the mantle. She suddenly felt restless and walled in, and the air in the room was stifling. She picked up her cardigan from the back of the desk chair and headed out into the night.

Her heart raced as she came into the garden and walked around to the side of the tree. She had only come out for some fresh, cool air, she told herself. Then why the flutter of disappointment when she found no one else there in the garden?

She leaned against the tree smoking her cigarette. The sky was clear except for the low, heavy moon. It was lovely and melancholy. She was just about to turn in for the night when she heard the sound of boots on the garden path behind her. She turned to see him standing there in the shadows, hat tucked crisply under his arm.

She hadn't been alone with him since that day she had wrapped her arms around his broad chest and pleaded for her son's life. Not since he had gripped her wrists in his hands and asked her in his anguished voice, "How can I?" And now she had found herself alone with him for the second time that day.

"Good evening, Mrs. Dorr. Do I find you well?"

"Well enough," she said.

He nodded, took another step or two in towards her. He looked out, and she could see his eyes flit back and forth across the sky.

"I wanted to apologise," he finally said.

"Apologise? For what?"

He took another step closer. "The bedroom. I am afraid I caused you distress. That was not my intention. I should have…"

She looked up at him. He was standing as he always did, legs slightly apart, hands behind his back. It made him look commanding, powerful. "You should have asked permission first," she interrupted.

There was a brief pause. "I should have _informed_ you first."

Ah, of course. The Baron needed no one's permission, least of all hers. She let out a short humourless laugh. "Will you be appropriating any more of our rooms, Baron? Perhaps the nursery? The kitchen? Or would you like my bedroom?"

He looked at her for a moment. His lips tightened, and she realised how her words had sounded. She could feel herself redden again, and she looked away.

"That will not be necessary, Mrs. Dorr," he said and then added evenly, "Not yet, anyway."

She narrowed her eyes at him and tried to read his face. _Not yet, anyway._ Was there a threat hidden in his words? An invitation? A statement of fact? But he merely looked back at her with the faintest trace of a smile.

She only sighed and drew her cardigan around her. She was too tired for this. It was at it always was: he was her gaoler, and she was the indignant, prickly prisoner. She didn't want to fall into this, not tonight, when she hadn't had so much as a polite conversation with anyone in days.

"How are you faring?" he asked her after a moment. "I know it cannot be easy for you." She turned to him, and he had a look of concern on his face. It was genuine, she knew. He wasn't taunting or trying to imply anything, like the awful Mrs. DuVal.

"I manage," she said and crossed to the bench. But she wasn't managing at all. She was isolated and desperately alone among islanders who had never really accepted her and trying to sort through a tangle of conflicting emotions that she couldn't begin to understand. Sitting here with him was almost unbearable after what has happened that day.

No. She felt nothing for him. She couldn't. There was a catch in her throat, and she pressed a hand against her lips. She wouldn't cry again. He had already seen her this way, and she would not do it again. She drew in her breath and blinked back tears.

He crossed to her and sat beside her on the bench. "You are worried about Philip," he said after a time.

Not "your son," or "Mr. Brotherson," but _Philip_. So intimate.

"Yes. I miss him very much." She nodded, blotting her eyes with the back of her hand, and added almost as an afterthought. "And James."

"The Senator," the Baron said, turning the name over. "Tell me, Mrs. Dorr. Why did you not evacuate when you had the chance?"

"I couldn't leave my husband," she snapped.

It was a lie, and she suspected the Baron knew it. Their marriage had been over. She loved James in her own way; he had been a pleasant companion and an occasional lover for these past few years, but he had ceased to be a husband to her long ago. It would not have been so easy to do the things she had done if he hadn't.

"You told me once that you were wounded the day that the harbour was bombed. So, you were there." There was a silence. She suddenly felt like a prisoner in the dock being questioned by the prosecution. Her heart skittered as he raised his chin knowingly. "I think you were trying to leave, Mrs. Dorr."

"That's none of your damned business," she said with a kind of half-hearted protest, and ground out her cigarette with the toe of her shoe. She should have risen and stormed into the house then and there, but she did not. She locked her eyes onto his. She could just make out his face as the moonlight streamed in through the branches.

"You're a remarkable woman, Mrs. Dorr," he said in that voice, the gentle murmur of it masking the menace that could lurk beneath. But there was no menace in his voice tonight. "I think if I were your husband I would not find it so easy to let you go."

The air around them seemed to crackle. She felt a strange pulling sensation at the centre of her, and she knew she had to leave now or she never would. She rose to her feet and crossed in front of him toward the house.

"Dine with me. Tomorrow night."

She turned to him with her arms folded across herself. "Certainly not."

"And why not? You intend to eat; I intend to eat. What is the harm of two people sitting in a room together to share a meal?"

"The answer is no, Baron." She turned to hurry up the path.

"You said once that you never could thank me enough," he called after her. She froze and turned toward him. He had stood and was crossing slowly to her. "I do not want your thanks, Mrs. Dorr. But I would be pleased if you would dine with me tomorrow night."

After a beat, she only turned and walked back into the house. There was no need to say anything. He already knew her answer.

END CHAPTER ONE


	2. Chapter 2

**RATING: **Still PG-13/K+. For now. Heh heh heh.

**DISCLAIMER:** I still don't own them. If I did, there would have been a Series 2.

**CHAPTER TWO**

Sleep was slow in coming. She lay for most of the night staring up at the ceiling, mind still reeling, her room washed in the soft blue glow of the moonlight. When she finally did drift off, it was a fitful sleep filled with fragmented dreams. It was only the faces she could remember the next morning. She saw Philip and James at the harbour, being sent off to France. There was Eugene LaSalle, lying crumpled and bloody in her orchard. But perhaps most clear of all was the Baron, drunk in her drawing room, ordering her to sit down. Then it all changed, the way things do in dreams, and he was standing with her on the porch fighting tears as he told her of his son's death.

She was exhausted and unfocused the next morning and numbly moved through the day as best she could. Her dinner with the Baron loomed ahead of her, and she thought about it with apprehension. There was something else, too, she could only just admit to herself. She felt it as she walked through the orchard and saw him at a distance, striding purposefully across the lawn with Flach.

He was dangerous, mysterious. The thought of sitting with him alone at dinner was…yes, it was _exciting_. How long had it been since she had felt that way?

And then she caught a glimpse of the stump, all that was left of the tree where Eugene LaSalle had been shot, and she felt a tide of shame wash over her. "What are you doing, Felicity?" she whispered to herself aloud.

After lunch, she went into the greenhouse. It was the only thing that seemed to keep her mind focused on something other than James and Philip and the Baron. The weather had been unusually pleasant and mild, but then the sun passed behind a cloud, and a long shadow fell across her. She stood in silence as she cut some roses. The pinks and reds would brighten the house. She was tired of the overwhelming masculinity of grey-green serge.

"Your flowers, Mrs. Dorr. They're lovely."

Her head snapped up, and there was a sudden intake of breath. It was the Baron standing there, his gloves and hat in one hand, leaning against the doorway. How long had he been watching her?

She turned her head back to the flowers. "I don't think they're as nice as they were last year," she said evenly. His sudden appearance had flustered her, and she tried without much success to hide it.

He took a step inside the greenhouse in the pause that followed. "I startled you."

"No, not at all."

"I'm sorry."

"You didn't _startle_ me. Perhaps I just need to become accustomed to having Germans lurking in the dark corners."

She watched as there was a slight pull at the edge of his mouth, as if her were amused by her. "I shall try to remember not to _lurk_, Mrs. Dorr."

"Do."

She hoped that they would exchange some pleasantries about the mild temperatures and then leave, but he didn't. He crossed to the table where she trimmed the flowers, the only sound the sharp snip of the garden shears.

"You English and your roses," he finally said with a trace of humour. "But then you don't consider yourselves English, do you, you islanders?"

"I'm not an islander," she said curtly. She immediately regretted it, as if anything she gave away about herself was some kind of small betrayal.

"Ah, so you are English after all?"

She said nothing but kept her eyes down on the table. He was unbearably close, the way he had been the day he had helped change her tyre. She gathered up the flowers and began to force them into the vase. Why wouldn't he go? There was a sharp pain then, a thorn pressing into the heel of her hand. She cried out and pulled her arm back on reflex. Her elbow sent the vase flying, and she looked down at the mess of water, broken flowers, and shattered crystal.

"Be careful of the broken glass…"

"I can manage perfectly well, thank you," she snapped.

He stood there behind her, and she could feel the heat of him. She reached out blindly to gather the shards, wanting him to go, and it was then she felt the glass slice into her hand. She cried out again in pain. There was a thin crimson line already running down her palm from the cut between her thumb and index finger.

"You've hurt yourself."

"No. I'm fine."

"Let me see."

"_No_. I told you I'm perfectly alright."

But he had caught her hand in his. "You're bleeding," he said, his voice soft with concern.

"It's nothing. Please." She could feel her eyes begin to fill with tears, not from the pain, but from the frustration at the impossibility of the situation.

Without a word, he placed his other hand on the small of her back. She could feel him leading her over to the gardener's sink in the corner of the greenhouse, and there was the light sound of the trickle of water as he turned on the tap. There was a sting as he held her hand there, and the stream turned a light pink in the basin. She drew her breath in through her teeth.

"Ssssh," he said.

She watched his face then, as he gently lifted her hand to the light. His fingers skimmed hers, and he blew a soft breath across her open palm to clear away the last grains of glass. An involuntarily shiver snaked down her spine. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted the cut until the bleeding finally slowed. Then he closed her fingers around it and took a step away.

"There. All better, I think," he said in a soft lull. He turned to retrieve his hat and gloves from the table. "I will see you this evening, Mrs. Dorr. Eight o'clock."

With a slight nod of the head, he left. She stood there, frozen, for a moment, until she was sure he was gone and then stumbled out into the light and moved toward the house.

The sun was still bright, but she found, even in the warmth of the house, she could not quite stop shivering.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

There were five dresses spread across her bed. It was ridiculous. She wasn't some giddy ingénue on her way to her first dance. She was a grown woman. Married. Off to dinner with the commandant of the occupying army. A _butchering thug_, as James had called him. That is all he was, even if Felicity still thought she could feel the brush of his fingertips across her palm.

She finally settled on something sombre, a dark navy thing she pulled out of the back of her wardrobe. She slipped it over her head with a sigh and stood in front of her full-length mirror.

"Oh, Lord, no," she groaned as she remembered why she hadn't worn it in years. The front of the dress came to a deep "V" just at the hollow between her breasts. It might have been all right for London, where she had bought it, but it had been met with disapproving stares the one time she had worn it to a party on the island.

She tried to pin it together with a brooch, but it caused the fabric to sag, only making the situation worse. She glanced over to the other dresses she had spread out on the bed. There was a red dress that wouldn't do, and the yellow thing was too festive. She thought for a moment of wearing the day dress she had worn in the greenhouse, but she and James always dressed for late dinners like this. Why should she change that for _him?_ And besides. The dress she had worn earlier was stained with droplets of her blood.

No, this would have to do, she thought, nervously fiddling with her hair in the mirror. Then she slicked on a last coat of lipstick and headed downstairs.

The house was still, as if everyone had been dismissed for the night. Her footsteps echoed as she headed into his wing of the house, pausing to press her damp hands against her dress and take a steadying breath before entering the dining room.

He was seated at the head of the table when she entered. The light in the room was low, and the table had been laid for two. A fire crackled behind him.

"Mrs. Dorr. I'm glad you could join me."

He rose when he saw her and she watched as his eyes dropped down and took her in as she stood there in the dress. She was glad that he couldn't see her in the dim as her face flushed pink. But not from embarrassment. What was it? Pride? Something else? Her hand rose and she tugged self-consciously at the neckline of the dress.

He stood for a moment before crossing to her and taking her hand. He lowered his head and lifted her hand as if to kiss it, but then he turned it over and ran a finger along the base of her thumb.

"And how is your hand?"

She pulled it from his grip. "It's fine. Thank you."

He stood back and gestured to the table. She crossed, and he followed behind her, pulling the chair from the table as she sat. There was a silence as he picked up the bottle of wine and poured her a glass. She hesitated for a moment before lifting it.

"It is from my vineyard. Please. Tell me what you think," he said.

She took a small sip. She'd had German wines before and found them too sweet. This was dry and crisp. "It's lovely," she said truthfully, trying to suppress a small smile. She'd pleased him, she saw, as he smiled in return and raised the glass to her with a small nod.

It _was_ lovely. The dinner was lovely, and she kept reminding herself of where she was and the company she was with as they were served by silent, efficient landsers. She was almost ashamed to have them see her with him. What must they think? Her husband is gone a month, and she's drinking his wine and eating his food in the candlelight. She finished off her glass and tried to blot it from her mind. She'd had little choice in the matter. She couldn't very well have turned him down. Could she?

The conversation was easy enough. They talked of the weather and wine and gardening, never going too far into any one topic. They had lapsed into a silence toward the end of the meal when he spoke.

"So. You are not a native of St. Gregory."

"_No,_" she said with more force than she had intended. She looked up at him. He was leaning back in his chair, taking her in. "I'm English. Do you know England?"

"Yes," he smiled with fondness. "I studied there for a time. Beautiful country, your England."

"And yet now you're hell bent on destroying it?"

He bridled before going on and then smiled a thin smile of restraint. "I have no quarrel with the English, Mrs. Dorr."

"Why don't you tell that to the families of all the English boys who have died in your war?"

"_Please_, Mrs. Dorr! I do not wish to argue with you tonight!" he said with closed eyes and sharply dropped an open palm onto the table. His voice was strained, and it was the first time since he had ordered her to sit the night of the party that she had heard him speak above a conversational tone. She blinked her eyes in surprise. But then he opened his eyes and paused for a moment before going on. "We are two people who have been separated from our families. I only wish to enjoy a peaceful dinner with you. And talk."

She lowered her head and took a sip of wine. No, she didn't wish to argue, either. Not tonight at least, as they both sat aching for their children. The game was too difficult, and she was growing too weary to play it.

"Yes," she said quietly after a beat, resuming the thread of the conversation. "I was born in England."

"Is that where you met the Senator?"

She nodded. "He'd just come down from Cambridge. After the war. Those were heady days in London." She spoke softly and smiled at the memories, but then her smile faded. Her eyes fell to her plate, and she pushed the remains of her dinner with her fork. "So full of promise," she said with quiet regret.

There was a silence where she could feel her eyes on him. A log popped in the hearth, and she was feeling warm with the fire and the wine. When he spoke, his voice was soft and low. "Then you were married and came to St. Gregory."

"Yes. My husband had to take his rightful place on the Senate," she said ruefully.

He looked at her through narrowed eyes that danced across her face. He spoke, as if he had discovered some truth about her. "And then Philip was born soon afterwards, was he not?"

She looked away. She had the feeling then, as she had had before, that the Baron could see into her. She was naked, and there was nothing she could hide from him. Of course he knew. She had married James because she was carrying Philip. She'd tried to convince herself over the years that she might have married him anyway, but she knew it wasn't true. Not after Philip had been sent away to boarding school in England. Their only real bond had been severed, and they had continued to drift in an arid marriage for the last decade.

She turned her face back to his, expecting him to be looking back at her with a look of triumph, but there was only sympathy in his eyes. Somehow, that was worse. She rose suddenly, her voice in a mild panic.

"I really should be going, Baron. Thank you for the dinner," she said in a rush.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Dorr, if I…" he said as he rose to his feet, but she cut him off with a forced smile.

"It's getting late, and tomorrow morning I…" She struggled for words. There was nowhere she needed to be the next morning, no one she needed to see. "Good night, Baron."

She expected him to wish her a good night and let her make her exit, but he did not. "I will see you upstairs, Mrs. Dorr."

"That's not necessary, Baron. It is my house; I know the way."

"Please. Allow me."

She smiled with weak resignation and nodded as they left the dinner room in silence. The air was thick, and she could feel her heart pound in her chest as they climbed the stairs to the landing that separated her wing of the house from his. They stood there for a moment, facing each other uneasily in the half-light.

"Good night, Mrs. Dorr." He took her hand in his and kissed it then. When he raised his eyes to hers, he let them linger, not with menace as he had before, but admiration. _Desire_. She had not been looked at that like that in years. Perhaps not ever. The effect of it was unsettling.

He still had her hand a moment later when she spoke, not quite able to look at him. "Tell me something, Baron." She never would have asked the question if she hadn't been bold from the wine. Still, her voice shook. "That day in my drawing room. The day Philip was arrested."

She looked up at him. He had pressed his lips into a tight line. They both knew what day she spoke of. "You could have had…anything you wanted," she said, not quite able to say the words she had that day. _As much sex as you want._ "Why didn't you?"

He squared his shoulders and pulled himself up to his full height. Even in the dim, she could see a flicker of hurt in his eyes. "What kind of man do you think me, Mrs. Dorr? And what kind of man would have thought me if I _had_?"

She could not answer, but after a moment she turned and walked down the corridor to her bedroom. It was only when she had reached her door that she heard the sound of his boots against the floorboards, receding into his side of the house.

She had thought sleep would be slow in coming again, but it was not.

In the dream, it was sunset. She was walking towards him as he stood in the garden. He was in his shirtsleeves, rolled up to his elbows, the way he had done when he had rebuilt the wall. He was standing there with his head down, hands in his pockets, when he looked up and saw her, giving her a small smile of pleasant surprise.

She crossed to him, and he turned to her. There was a light breeze, she could almost feel it on her skin, and his blond hair hung down across his eyes. It gave his hard features a boyish handsomeness, and she suddenly knew in this dream, he wasn't meant to be her gaoler, her enemy. He was her lover.

She reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck, and he smiled down at her, putting his hands around her waist and pulling her in. He kissed her then, and she responded with a small moan of contentment. His hand moved up her waist and between their bodies, as he undid the buttons on her blouse and slipped his fingers inside to find the rise of her breast.

She woke up then, her heart racing wildly. She sat like that, with the covers pulled across her until her breathing finally subsided.

Then, she rolled over onto her side and found that once again, sleep eluded her.

**END CHAPTER TWO**


	3. Chapter 3

**RATING: **Still PG-13/K+.

**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own them. I neither received nor sought any monetary gain. As if.

**NOTES:** It's still moving slowly with Felicity and the Baron. Thanks for your patience! And thanks to Viv for the medal research!

**CHAPTER THREE**

Something had changed between, something subtle and indefinable. She had dreaded facing him the next day with the dream and the feeling of his mouth on hers and his fingers finding exposed skin so fresh in her mind. But then she saw him standing in the foyer pulling on his gloves as she came down the stairs that morning. His head was down, and his forehead was creased with thought. She paused there at the bottom step, and he heard her then. He lifted his eyes to hers, and his face changed. It was elusive, a brightening, the slight pull at the corner of his mouth.

"Good morning, Mrs. Dorr," he said, lowering his head but still not taking his eyes from hers.

"Good morning, Baron." She allowed herself a small smile and took a step down.

He turned to her and opened his mouth as if to speak, the same impalpable look on his face, but then his new driver entered and said something to him in German. He hesitated for a moment but then responded. The driver hurried out and the Baron turned to her. "You are looking well this morning, Mrs. Dorr. I trust you had a restful sleep."

"Yes. Thank you, Baron." She could feel a slight burn in her cheeks at the memory of last night's dream.

"I enjoyed our dinner last evening." There was a beat before he went on. "I trust it will not be the last meal we share."

And then he was gone with a small bow, out the door and into his car.

She went about her usual business. Reading, helping Delphine in the kitchen. Anything to keep her mind occupied. It was later that afternoon when she left the greenhouse that she heard the sound of music drifting out towards her. At first she thought it was the gramophone, but as she entered, she realised it was someone playing her own piano.

It was that Muller, she knew. She had caught him one other time just after the Germans had invaded the island. She had come downstairs one morning to hear the sounds of a popular American song being played on the piano. She stormed in with unconcealed anger and pulled the lid down over the keys, nearly catching Muller's fingers as she did. She hated it. _Them _touching her things. Defiling them. She felt violated.

"This is _our_ side of the house. You have no right."

He looked up at her from the piano bench with large, apologetic eyes. "I am sorry, Mrs. Dorr. It is only…there is no piano in our wing."

"Poor you."

He rose from the bench as she stood there with her arms folded across her chest as it rose and fell with fury.

"I apologise," he stammered and gestured awkwardly to the piano. "It is Irving Berlin. Do you know him?"

"Yes. As I recall he's Jewish. Are you permitted to play Jewish composers, Capt. Muller? Or are you required to confine yourself to good German composers?" she asked with false innocence.

He smiled weakly and picked up his hat from the piano. "I meant no disrespect, Mrs. Dorr. It will not happen again."

"See that it doesn't."

But now he was back, playing a classical piece she didn't recognise. She dropped her basket of cut flowers onto the table in the entrance hall and thundered into the drawing room.

"How dare you?" she demanded as she turned the corner into the room.

The music stopped suddenly, mid-measure, and he held his curled fingers there above the keyboard, looking up at her in surprise.

"Baron…"

He rose and gave her a slight nod of the head. "Mrs. Dorr. Forgive me. There was no one here."

She crossed slowly to the centre of the room. After all this time, she still found his presence slightly unnerving. "I didn't know you played."

"It has been many years. I am afraid I am out of practice."

"No, no." She lowered herself uneasily on the corner of a chair. "It was lovely. I didn't recognise it."

After a moment he sat back down and let his fingers rest on the keyboard before beginning to play again. "Wagner," he said.

She let out a short, humourless laugh. "Your Fuhrer's favourite."

He said nothing but continued to play a few strident chords. And then the music slowed, changed. Soft, lilting phrases. "Yes. But I prefer Chopin."

She closed her eyes and smiled with recognition. "_Chanson de l'adieu._"

"You know it?" he said softly under the gentle ebb of the music.

"Yes," she murmured, leaning her head back. "Philip used to play it. It's his piano, really. Hasn't had much use since he left for school."

He continued to play as the music built to a crescendo and then eased back again. "And when was that, Mrs. Dorr?"

"He was only ten," she said quickly with a stab of regret. She could still remember that day all too well, how he had tried to be so brave as they waved goodbye to him at the gates of Stowe. She felt her life had been drifting into purposeless ever since. Flower arranging and Am Dram.

"They say," he began softly. "Beethoven stirs the soul, Mozart makes you weep, but Chopin makes you fall in love."

It was a beautiful piece, one of her favourites. Lovely and melancholy all at once. His touch on the keys was light and graceful. And oh, dear Lord, how much harder it was getting for her to keep him in the monstrous box she had created for him.

"Are you all right, Mrs. Dorr?"

Her eyes snapped open, and she lifted her head. He had stopped playing and was looking at her with concern, his hands resting gently against his legs. She became aware that a hot tear ran down her cheek.

"Yes, yes, I fine. Silly of me, really," she said in a rush and covered with a light ripple of a laugh. She rose to her feet, and he followed. "I have some flowers…I need to…"

"Yes, of course. I am sorry for the intrusion. I haven't played in years, and now that I have again, I find I miss it."

He looked at her. There was a hint of pain in his eyes, mixed with something else, something she recognised as longing. It was the way he had looked at her on the landing the night before, and she found she couldn't breathe. The room was still for a moment.

"Then I hope you'll play again some evening."

There was a beat. "I would like that."

"It's been so quiet since Philip left," she said with a watery smile. "I've missed it."

He nodded once, and their eyes met in understanding. "Well. Good evening, Mrs. Dorr."

"Good evening, Baron."

He gave her a bow and silently left the room. She stood there for a moment and then sat back in the chair for a time before heading back out to retrieve her flowers.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

He did come back. Not that evening, or the next, and she found that she was disappointed each night as she sat unable to focus on her reading.

But then he did come. After a few pleasantries, he asked if he could play for a while, and they sat wordlessly as his hands glided across the piano.

It was like that in the days that followed. Not every night, but he would come to her often in the evenings as the weather began to turn colder. At first, he only played a piece or two while she read, and then he would breeze out as quickly as he had come in.

And then he began to linger. After he played, he would ask her about her book, or they would talk about the weather or music. She found she had begun to look forward to these evenings. To the sound of his voice, his company.

And then sometimes, as days went by, he would not play at all. She would hear the sound of his boots in the corridor, and then he would drift in silently with a trace of a smile. Some evenings they would talk. Other times, they would listen to music on the gramophone and lapse into a companionable silence.

The end of every evening was the same, however. They would part with a respectable "good evening" and a shake of the hands.

It was only music. Polite conversation. She was doing nothing wrong, was she?

It was one evening that he had come in after dinner. He had played part of a piece as she tried to read a book, but then he had given up mid-way through and begun to move restlessly around the room. Finally, he put a record on the gramophone and sank down into a chair opposite her.

She folded her book and put it on the sofa next to her. "Is anything the matter, Baron?"

"No. I apologise. I am afraid I'm not very good company this evening."

"Do you have news of your son?" she asked with concern.

He shook his head. "No. No news."

"I suppose that makes it worse sometimes," she said with quiet understanding.

"Indeed." He smiled that small, pained smile she had seen before.

There was another silence while she searched his face. "Tell me about your wife Baron."

He looked up at her and blinked in surprise, but she only looked back at him with an even smile. When he spoke, his words were without emotion. "Her name is Ruth. She was a good mother to our sons." Felicity nodded. She now had a name, the Baroness. "We were children when we married. I was home on leave from the war."

Her eyes fell onto his chest. Of course. James had never served, but why hadn't it occurred to her before? Philip had gone through a spell as a boy where he was mad for all things military. He spent hours studying badges and insignia and could enthusiastically name all the aeroplanes from the last war. Felicity could still recognise some of the medals pinned to the Baron's jacket.

"You were in the Great War. Wounded, I should think," she said in soft tones.

He lifted his hands and ran his fingers across the medal on the left side of his chest. The wound badge. "Passchendaele," he said, and she nodded grimly. He went on with a heavy voice after a moment. "So brave and careless we are with our own lives. One doesn't understand until one has children of one's own."

"Yes," was all she said, all she could say through gathering tears. Their eyes met in a moment of empathy, and then he pulled himself up straight and leaned forward.

"I've made you cry."

"No," she said, managing a smile. "I'm all right."

After a pause, he spoke. "I believe this cold weather agrees with you, Mrs. Dorr."

She frowned and brushed at a stray tear. "Oh?"

"Yes." He nodded his chin towards her. "The colour in your cheeks. I do believe you are…_blossoming_."

She looked down with a startled breath. Blossoming. The opening of a flower. The imagery was…

She put her hands to her face.

"I am sorry." His voice was a low, husky murmur. "Perhaps I have used the wrong word."

But she could only shake her head and keep her eyes to the floor. After a pause, she could hear him rise and cross to the gramophone. There was the hiss and pop of the record and then the slow, dreamy sounds of the song, saxophones and muted trumpets. Then he crossed slowly to her and stopped. When she lifted her eyes, he was holding a hand out. "We won't talk anymore tonight."

There was a moment where she thought she should go, but she didn't. She slipped her hand into his. Without breaking her gaze, her pulled her to her feet, one hand dropping down the curve of her waist. She had forgotten that another human being's touch could be this gentle.

They moved to the centre of the floor, not speaking, eyes still locked. His thumb stroked the back of her hand as they swayed softly to the music. Every nerve stood on end.

And even as the music went on, they stopped. He let go of her right hand, and he slowly moved his left hand to her back. Both of his arms were wrapped low around her waist. Her heart raced. She dropped her hand onto his shoulder, her thumb grazing against his cheek.

They stood that way for an agonising moment, his eyes flitting across her face, and then she leaned into him, her lips parting slightly. She could feel his hand move up her back.

And then there was movement. In the doorway.

They unwound from each other's arms, but it was too late. The Bailiff stood there, clutching his briefcase. Angelique Mahy stood next to him, looking away in embarrassment.

"Mrs. _Dorr!_" the old man said with horrified eyes. His jaw pumped up and down speechlessly.

Felicity looked back and forth between the Baron and the Bailiff, but there was nothing to say. The Baron cleared his throat and resumed his tight stance. Hands behind back, shoulders squared.

She felt a wave of shame wash over her. "It's nothing. It's _nothing_," she said feebly. "Excuse me."

It was all she could do to leave the room. She breezed past them, still feeling the weight of their eyes on her, and hurried to her room. She sat there for a long moment on the edge of the bed trying to regain her composure.

Nothing had happened. What could they say they had seen? Dancing. That was all. But she knew that would be enough with islanders who never quite accepted her and already suspected she had been carrying on with Urban Mahy, perhaps with the Baron, too.

But it was nothing. She would have stopped it. She would never have let anything happen with the Baron there in the drawing room. She was lonely and isolated and starved for simple human contact. That was all. It was nothing. She had no feelings for him.

She had no idea how long she sat like that. Finally, she thought she could hear the sound of boots on the stairs. She held her breath as they hesitated on the landing for a long moment, and then they were gone.

**END CHAPTER THREE**


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

She lay in bed the next morning long after the sun had crept in through the curtains, unable to face what she knew was coming.

She thought she could trust Angelique Mahy of all people not to say anything, and perhaps the Bailiff would keep what he'd seen to himself, for James' sake if nothing else. Even if he told his wife, there was no guarantee she would pass it on again, was there? And what could he say he had seen? Dancing. Nothing more. She hadn't exercised the best judgment, perhaps, but there was no scandal in that.

No, Felicity knew how this game of Chinese Whispers worked here on St. Gregory. These were some of the same people who had taken a fond friendship and innocent stage kiss with Urban Mahy and imagined it into a torrid affair. The difference, Felicity knew in a dizzying realisation, was that there was nothing innocent about her dance with the Baron.

The Bailiff had recognised what she had tried to deny to herself. If he knew it, then Mrs. LaPalotte knew it. If Mrs. LaPalotte knew it, then the whole island might have known in lurid detail about the notorious Senator's wife carrying on with the Commandant while her husband rotted in a French prison.

But she had to take her medicine. She couldn't spend the war hiding in her room feigning various illnesses. She had to go.

Her heartbeat quickened as she neared the town. She thought for a moment she'd turn around and cycle back home before anyone saw her, but she pedaled on. She had to face them if she could ever hold her head up. Staying away would be some kind of tacit admission. She'd done nothing wrong, not really. She might have kissed him, but it was just a silly impulse. A lonely woman, pretty music, a handsome man in the velvet dark. But she would have stopped it before anything else happened. She would have. She _would_ have.

She felt the flutter of nerves as she turned into the street that ran in front of the George Hotel. A passerby, a young woman with a baby, nodded politely and moved on. Felicity smiled with relief and leaned her bicycle against the fountain there in the town square. The street was filled with people going about their business and paying her little attention. Of course. They had far greater things to worry them than some imagined scandal.

There was almost a bounce in her step as she headed towards Tanner's with her basket in the crook of her arm. The day was brisk, and the sun shone down through the patchy clouds. She was glad she'd come. Why had she been so worried about this?

And then there was a heaviness in the air, a subtle change in pressure. She saw them ahead, Mrs. La Palotte and her handmaiden Mrs. DuVal coming out of the chemist clucking like two hens. They were in mid-conversation when they saw her, but then they stopped and the one turned toward the other with raised eyebrows.

Felicity could feel her mouth go dry. Her eyes shifted across the street, and she could see two more women with their heads pressed together, watching as Mrs. LaPalotte and Mrs. DuVal approached and the ridiculous little drama unfolded.

She walked on uneasily, trying to pretend nothing was particularly wrong. Finally, the women neared her and made a show of turning their heads the other way. So this was the way it was to be. "Good morning, ladies," Felicity said, disappointed how thin and strained her own voice sounded.

Mrs. DuVal walked on as if she hadn't heard, but then Mrs. LaPalotte turned to her, her lips pressed into a thin, colourless line. "Good day, Mrs. Dorr," she said, and then they were gone, with their chins raised in the air.

Felicity's eyes cut back over to the place across the street where the two younger women stood. She knew one of them, the wife of one of her husband's colleagues on the Senate, and she had one corner of her mouth raised in a sneer.

She scanned the street, looking for a friendly or at least indifferent face. There was couple she knew up ahead. They looked away as her eyes fell on theirs. They knew. Maybe not everyone knew, but enough of them did. She stumbled on in a rising panic, biting her lip to keep from crying, when she nearly collided with Angelique Mahy in front of the camera shop.

"Mrs. Dorr," the girl said concern, "Are you all right?"

Felicity tried to speak, but her words only came out in a choked sob. She felt Angelique's hand on her arm, and the bell over the door jingled cheerfully as she shut the door behind her. She reached a hand up to turn the sign over to "open," but then she let it drop.

Angelique disappeared for a moment and then came back out with a glass of water that she pressed into Felicity's still-shaking hand. Felicity whispered a thanks and sipped at it before speaking.

"I assume everyone knows," Felicity finally said with quiet bitterness.

"I didn't say anything to anyone, Mrs. Dorr," Angelique said earnestly. "Please believe me."

"Your mother? Does she know?" Felicity could still hear Cassie Mahy's stinging words of accusation at her husband's funeral.

"She heard that I was there and asked if I saw what happened. I told her I walked in after the Bailiff, and I hadn't seen anything."

Felicity scanned the girl's face. Her eyes were large and rimmed with tears. "But you did see something. Didn't you, Angelique?"

Angelique sniffed and looked away guiltily. When she finally spoke, her voice as soft and broken. "I'm in no position to judge you, Mrs. Dorr."

Felicity let out a sharp, rueful laugh. There was a war on with no end in sight, and all the young island men had gone. Girls like Angelique would never be as young and pretty again. Who could blame her for falling in love with a sympathetic and dashing young pilot?

Felicity was a married woman past her first blush of youth. She had almost fallen into the arms of the enemy commandant, the man who had ordered the execution of a hapless island boy. No, there was nothing similar about their situations at all.

"Thank you for the water, Angelique. I think you'd better open up now." Felicity smiled weakly and set the water glass down on the counter. "I'm not sure you want to be seen with a scarlet woman coming out of your shop. Bad for business and all that." She tried to manage a laugh, but it caught in her throat.

"I don't think that way," Angelique said shaking her head as she opened the door for Felicity.

But there was nothing else to say. Felicity nodded and walked back out into the street. It may have been that no one passing by knew or cared about what the Bailiff had seen, but it didn't matter. She darted across the square with her head down and mounted her bicycle. It was then she saw Mrs. LaPalotte coming the other way again.

She panicked for a moment, unable to pull her eyes away from the older woman, and her bicycle veered onto the street. There was the blast of a car horn as a car with swastika flags sped by, swerving to avoid her. She pulled the wheel sharply to one side, but she had already lost control. She felt the bicycle begin to topple, and she landed underneath it as it skidded to a halt on the pavement.

She sat for a moment in a daze, wiping the grit from the palms of her hands. Both of her knees were skinned raw, but her bicycle was in worse condition, the wheel twisted out of shape. She could feel the tears of embarrassment and frustration sting at her eyes as she pulled herself to her feet and lifted her broken bike. A stabbing sensation shot through her ankle, and she drew in her breath between her teeth. She could feel eyes on her, but she wouldn't ask for help. No one was offering.

She didn't care if she had to drag the thing all the way home. She had too much pride to sit here sniveling in the street. She pushed her bike along as best she could past the George Hotel, a pain tearing through her ankle with each step she took.

"Mrs. Dorr…" That voice, in genuine concern, coming down the steps of the hotel. He was with Walker and Muller. "Are you all right?"

She hadn't seen him since the night before when she had felt his arms slip around her in the drawing room. She kept her eyes down and tried to steer her battered bicycle past him.

"Yes, I'm fine. Excuse me, Baron." But he was in front of her with one hand on the handlebars.

"You've had an accident."

"I'm all right. It's nothing. Please."

He knelt down then, his hand running down the length of her twisted wheel. She felt his eyes cut over to her bloodied knees, and she self-consciously tried to cover them with her hands. He stood up with a frown. "You are not all right. I am driving you home. Muller, get Mrs. Dorr's bicycle. We'll have a landser repair it."

He nodded sharply over at Muller, who obediently stepped forward and tried to take the bike from her. She slapped her hands on top of his. "No! Leave it alone! I said I'm fine."

There was a moment of absurd struggle with the thing before Muller managed to yank it free, pulling her forward with it. She stepped hard on her injured ankle and let out a startled cry of pain. She buckled, but the Baron caught her elbow.

"You've turned your ankle." His voice was soothing. "Please. Let me help you."

"I don't want your help!" She wrestled free of his grip, defiantly trying to hold back tears. "Can't you see that? Please! Leave me alone!"

She easily pulled the bicycle from Muller's hands as he looked at her in dumbfounded surprise. She heard the Baron call out to her once more as she hobbled off as quickly as her injured ankle would let her. Once out of town, she mounted it and tried to steer as best she could. The bicycle shook all the way and the warped wheel made a dreadful noise, but finally she managed, almost collapsing in pain and exhaustion when she reached home.

Delphine fussed over her and helped her to the sofa in the drawing room where she propped her throbbing ankle up. She stood over Felicity wringing her hands.

"I wish you'd let me send for the doctor, ma'am."

"It's not broken, I don't think. I'll just need to stay off it."

"Does it hurt very much?"

Felicity winced as she propped herself up against a pillow. "Yes. It hurts."

She heard it then, the sound of the car door slamming out front. It could only be one person. And then there was the sound of his footsteps moving purposefully through the house, growing closer. She tensed as he entered the room, his forehead creased, and then stood apprehensively in the doorway.

"I…came to see if Mrs. Dorr was all right."

There was an anxious silence while Delphine looked awkwardly back and forth between them.

"It's all right, Delphine," she said tersely. "You can go."

"But ma'am…"

"It's _all right._"

She hesitated for a moment and then scurried away. Felicity looked up at him as coldly as she could manage, but she was certain he must be able to hear her heart pounding beneath.

He paused and then took a tentative step inside, gesturing to the sideboard where they kept the liquor.

"Can I pour you a brandy?" he asked softly. "Perhaps it would take the edge off the pain."

He moved across the floor, looking back at her once with a gentle smile of solicitude. He was like a husband, a lover, all concern and tender gestures. She felt a pang, but then steeled herself.

"No. I want you to leave."

He stood for a moment with the decanter stopper in one hand, and then replaced it softly. The tinkling sound of the crystal cut the silence. He turned and took a step in towards her, and then he was the commandant again, standing with hands tucked behind his back, his feet slightly apart.

"I regret what happened last night, Mrs. Dorr. It was careless. Please forgive me," he said in a flat rush.

"_Careless_?"

"Yes. I am sorry. It won't happen again."

She looked at him there, standing so crisply, his eyes on hers. She could feel herself give way, her voice was heavy with pain. "What do you want from me?" she asked achingly.

"We have been forced together by circumstances, Mrs. Dorr. I only want for us to be friends."

"We haven't been _forced together by circumstances_," she spat. "You invaded our island. You invaded our home. When you eventually leave, and you _will_ leave, I will stay behind. I will need to live with these people. There can be no evening Chopin in the drawing room, no sherry before dinner. We _cannot_ be _friends_."

She tensed and drew in her breath as he crossed slowly to her and sat next to her on the sofa. This would be so much easier if he weren't so agonisingly close. She waited for him to speak.

"Forgive me, Mrs. Dorr. I have obviously misread your feelings."

"Yes. You have. I feel nothing for you but repulsion, and I certainly don't want your friendship."

She held his eyes for a moment, surprised that she had found the strength to say it. He looked back at her, and she could see a brief flash of hurt on his face. Then he rose.

"I wonder, Mrs. Dorr, if you are even willing to admit to yourself what it is you want."

He set his hat smartly on his head and was gone.

She sat there, drawing in ragged breaths. There could be nothing between them. She was alone and isolated, and she had let it go on too far with the music and the shared conversation. He was right; it would not happen again.

But he was wrong about something else. She did know what she wanted, she knew in an awful moment as she finally gave way to the sobs she had held back for weeks now.

She wanted him. God help her, she did, and there was no point in denying the terrible truth to herself. She wanted _him_.

**END CHAPTER FOUR**


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: **The Velvet Dark  
**Rating: **M/NC-17, just to be on the safe side, but it's not too graphic.**  
Feedback:** Praise only.  
**Disclaimer: **Don't own 'em! Wish I did!  
**Notes:** I'm not too sure how you all will feel about this chapter. I think it had to move a little bit in this direction before Felicity is really able to sort out her feelings with the Baron, but don't despair. I hope you enjoy it. (?)

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

She dreamt of James that night. She was standing alone at the harbour, waiting for his return from a French prison. There was a boat, and a lone figure came off with a battered valise in his hand. He moved uncertainly toward her. His coat hung off his shoulders, and his cheeks were dark hollows. She threw her arms around him and sobbed while he whispered soothingly, "I understand."

She knew it was only a dream of wishful thinking. He might have understood what she had been willing to do for Philip but would he understand this? How could he effectively govern his precious island with a wife who was thought not only to be an adultress but a collaborator?

It would have been better if she had left with the others, or even, she thought in a brief moment of despair, if she had died along with Urban Mahy on the harbour that day.

But she wasn't dead. She was very much alive, even if she had felt for some time that she was merely existing.

She had come to London that first season after the war. Everything was bright and loud and colourful, and she wanted to taste it all. She had seen James at a few dances and parties. He was solid and upright and perhaps a bit unexciting, but he had spoken so poetically of his island with its wild beauty and windswept, rocky coasts that she had convinced herself he was some great romantic. One night after a party, she had brought him back to the flat she shared with another girl. Her flatmate had gone to Oxfordshire to visit family for the week-end, and so Felicity had accepted James' fumbling advances. It was quick and awkward, and afterwards, while he snored next to her in her narrow bed, she had lain there sniffling in bewildered disappointment and thinking, "Is that all?"

A month or so later, she discovered she was pregnant. There was a terrible, ineloquent moment where he tried to give her money to get rid of it, but in the end, he had offered to marry her because that was the sort of thing decent young men like James Dorr did. They would learn to love each other. Then he took her back to his island to assume his place on the Senate, and all her romantic illusions about her new husband, if she had ever really had them, fell quickly away.

Even the house he had described so lovingly could feel cold and uninviting. She tried to make it her own, and for a time, when it had been filled with Philip's laughter, it had truly felt like home. The truth was, it felt a bit like a prison even before the Germans invaded. She hadn't expected for it to take on such a literal meaning. She was trapped here, away from people she could no longer face, guarded by a man she feared and wanted in equal measures.

She saw him only at a distance over the next few days. There was no Chopin. She would not hear the low, seductive tones of his voice in the evening. She had told him all she felt for him was repulsion. It was a lie, of course. What she felt for him was far, far different, but that was the way it had to be.

Her bedroom had become her cell, and she had even begun to take her meals there on a tray. She could see from her window that day that the Bailiff had come to discuss something with Walker. They were out in front of the house by the wall that the Baron and Philip had built together, Angelique a few steps behind. The Bailiff was agitated about something and gestured broadly toward some unseen point in the distance while Walker shook his head adamantly and waved his hands in front of him.

Finally, the men nodded towards Angelique and she backed away as if she had been dismissed. Felicity picked up her coat and came down the front steps just as Angelique reached the house.

They shared a moment of silent sympathy and then strolled together down towards the garden. Felicity sat with a cigarette while Angelique leaned against the tree. She looked very small and fragile with her shoulders hunched against the cold and her hands jammed in the pockets of her cloth coat. It was thin and worn and several seasons old, but there would be no new winter coats this year.

"How is your young man?" Felicity finally asked.

"He's alive." _For now._ It was the unspoken afterthought. Angelique shrugged helplessly and crossed to the bench next to her. "I hate it. Every time he takes off, I wonder if he'll come back. I keep thinking it will get easier, but it never does."

Felicity felt a small pang of envy. She didn't envy Angelique the worry; Felicity already knew that worry all too well, but she was a young girl in _love_, an all-encompassing passion, where every nerve stands on end and every sensation is heightened.

Angelique's eyes and nose had gone red, not just from the cold, but from the sudden burst of anxious emotion. Felicity reached over and placed a hand on top of the girl's. "Please be careful."

"We are careful, I promise." Angelique shook her head with wide, earnest eyes. "No one knows except you and June."

"That's not what I mean."

Angelique's forehead wrinkled, and she opened her mouth for a moment as if to speak. But then she understood. Her eyes fell, and she pressed a hand reflexively against her middle.

"After the war," she began in a childlike voice. "What will happen to us? And…_what if_…there's a baby?"

Felicity took a long puff from her cigarette. "I don't know."

They sat for a moment in an uneasy silence. "That day…in the drawing room," Felicity started, and Angelique looked away. "What you saw…"

"You don't have to say anything, Mrs. Dorr…"

"No, please. I want to. It was foolish, and I'm terribly ashamed. But nothing happened. And it won't."

It was absurd, feeling as if she had to explain her actions to a girl who was barely older than Philip.

"Sometimes," Angelique said after a thoughtful moment, "I don't recognise myself." There was no sadness or reproach in her voice. Only resignation. "I think war must make us do things we wouldn't even consider doing otherwise."

Felicity smiled and nodded her head in understanding.

"Angelique!" The Bailiff was coming over the rise as fast as his spindly legs could carry him, his mouth turned down in a disapproving frown.

"I'd better go." She rolled her eyes slightly. "It's funny, really. Here I am sleeping with a German airman, and he doesn't want me talking to _you._"

Angelique's bluntness startled Felicity, but she mirrored the girl's humourless smirk.

"We make a find pair, don't we?" She threw the last of her cigarette down and stubbed it out.

Angelique gave Felicity's hand a squeeze, and then she hurried off. After they were gone, Felicity rose from the bench with a sigh and headed back to her cell.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

She was reading, or trying to, before getting ready for bed when she heard it.

She was used to the sound of their boots on the stairs at all hours of day and night. Always keeping perfect, purposeful time. Or there were nights when Muller and Walker would stagger home after an evening at the club, and they would stomp heavily upstairs, singing in slurred German.

This was different. She heard the creak on the stairs, heavy and uneven. Then it stopped, at the top of the staircase outside her door. She expected the footfall to resume again and then recede into their wing of the house, but it didn't. There was nothing, and then the noise of the floorboards again, creaking under shifted weight. She strained to hear it. There was a hesitation, but it was growing closer. She rose from the bed with a frown and stepped out into the corridor.

He was at the top of the landing, standing stock-still. She had to wait a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim, but as they did, she could see that something was wrong. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and when he turned to her, his eyes were dark and pleading. "Baron…" she said in surprise.

He took one unsteady step in towards her.

"Forgive me…I did not know where else to go…" His voice shook with barely restrained emotion.

"What is it? What's happened?" she said quickly. Her instinct had been correct. Something was very wrong.

He ran a hand down his face. "My son, Oskar…"

She drew in a breath and held it.

"His plane was shot down over England…" She nodded in grim understanding, her fingers pressed against her mouth. "There was a crew of three men…only one parachute was seen…"

He was trying so hard to hold his bearing, she knew. His back was straight, but he had reached out one hand to steady himself against the banister. She reached out on instinct as if to comfort him, but she drew her hand back in. She couldn't touch him.

"But they did see a parachute…it could have been him," she said with hope.

He nodded sharply, but said nothing. Even in the half-light, she could see the tears pool in his eyes as they had done only weeks before when he had learned of his younger son's death. Even then, he had maintained his dignified, stoic bearing, but now his pain was palpable; it seemed to rise off of him in waves. He was a man, a father, both sons possibly – _probably_ – lost in this horrible war. What if Philip was gone and word had not yet reached her? She knew his grief, and she ached for him.

Then the barriers between them seemed to dissolve. As her own eyes filled with tears, she moved in toward him, a spontaneous hand reaching out for his arm. "He parachuted out of that plane. He's all right. You have to believe that," she said, although she was finding it difficult to speak. She placed her hands gently on his shoulders, then moving up to his face, and at her touch he dissolved.

"He's all right. It's all right," she murmured softly, hiding the tears of in her own voice. She could feel his hands reaching around her and pulling her in to him, his fingers curling into her back. There was a tear sliding down his face. She brushed at it and kissed the place where it had been. "He's all right." She repeated it, dropping another kiss.

His breathing slowed and his fingers softened against her. There was another kiss, soft and comforting, closer to his mouth. He looked up at her then. There was a moment, something unspoken, and he leaned forward, meeting her mouth with his own.

There would be no interruptions, no one to stop them. She could feel herself moving backwards, guiding him as much as being lead, as if in a dance. They were only two people then, coming together in need. Their bodies were intertwined as they moved into her bedroom; hands tugged with a hunger at buttons and clothing, his fingers found their way inside her blouse, skimming the exposed skin at the rise of her breasts. She felt his hands move blindly down her leg, fingers grazed her thighs as he pulled the hem of her skirt up. She moaned softly in approval, unable, unwilling, to stop this any longer.

His hands slid down her hips and lifted her onto the bed. She let herself fall backwards and pulled him down to her as he propped himself on his hands above her. Their eyes met as if he was offering her a chance to refuse him, but she wouldn't, and then he was inside her. She moaned again, her body curved into his. They grasped at each other, hands moving over their bodies, still pulling at clothes. He thrust against her, each movement bringing a little cry from her, and for a moment she felt only the raw, physical need of this.

Then there was a ragged noise from his chest. She cried out with him, and then he collapsed against her for a silent moment. She bore his weight as his breathing eased, her hands feeling the dampness of sweat beneath his shirt. Finally, he pulled himself up and sat there on the edge of the bed, facing away from her.

A sudden, terrible chill had set in. She watched as he reached out unseeingly and retrieved his jacket from the end of the bed. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons on her blouse as she hurriedly tried to do it back up again.

"Please. Go."

"Felicity…" he finally said, and let her Christian name hang there for a moment.

"Go! _Please!_ Will you _go_?"

She knelt on her bed, covering her hands with her face. She felt the springs ease as he rose slowly. From between her fingers, she could still seem him. He buttoned his coat and watched her there for a long moment. He remained for a while, even after he had finished re-dressing, standing there in that way he had. His eyes were cast downward, she could see that, and his face carried a look of pain and regret. Finally, he turned and shut the door with a soft click behind him.

She was on her feet then with an anguished sob and into the bathroom next to her room. She pulled her clothes off and let the tap run as hot as she could bear it as she crouched in the tub and scrubbed at her skin until it was raw.

When her tears finally subsided she numbly wrapped herself in her dressing gown. She had given truth to what they had all assumed about her. She had _wanted_ it, and she shivered at the memory of his mouth on hers and his hands curving around her breasts. How could something she had desired so much feel like such an awful betrayal? Or was it the other way round?

His scent still lingered in her mouth and nose as she moved to the window and peered through the curtain. She could see a figure below, a man, out on the lawn. He moved to the wall, the Baron and Mr. Brotherson's wall, and stood there for a long while before he turned slowly and followed the path down to the garden.

**END CHAPTER FIVE**


	6. Chapter 6

**TITLE:** "The Velvet Dark" Chapter 6  
**RATING: **Overall, M. This Chapter is PG  
**FEEDBACK:** Praise only.  
**NOTES: **This is a fairly short chapter. It's the Baron's turn! I think we needed to hear from him. I hope I've given some insight into his character but still left him a bit mysterious!

XXXXXXXXX

He had known peaceful nights since arriving on St. Gregory. Sleep comes easily to those with the strength of their convictions.

Except for the night he heard of Manfred's death, and again that night with the terrible news of Oskar's unknown fate. He had lain awake thinking of the lost boys he had held as newborns and sent, not yet men, off to die in this war.

With each of these losses, he had found himself seeking her company, and he had allowed her inside the grief he would show to no one else. When Manfred was killed, she had briefly lowered her mask of hostility and given him soft words of sympathy, even as she agonised for her own son. And in a moment of unplanned compassion, she had given him hope and comfort again when word came of Oskar, taking his rough face in those gentle, delicate hands, kissing him there, leading him to her bed.

He knew he would have her from the moment he saw her at the George Hotel. So prim and indignant in her hat and gloves. It was only a matter of time, he knew. He was part of the most highly trained army in the world, a decorated veteran of combat. Now he was here on an island of dowagers and old buffoons, a warrior without a war, and the game had simply amused him. A neglected, unguarded English rose, so hostile, so morally superior. The symbolism was too perfect.

She had been nothing more than the quarry in his private hunt. Even in a place where her husband's status might have elevated her own, she remained an outsider, married to a man who was more interested in the business of his island than in sharing his wife's bed. He had collected all these things and stored them away like cards to be played.

Then something altered at some point, a point he hadn't yet been able to define. As hardened as any soldier becomes during wartime, he still considered himself a civilised man, and he had begun to lose his taste for the game. It was more than just his breeding or his conscience, it was _Felicity_. She had become more than the object in a game somewhere along the way.

It was true; she was sharp and witty, a worthy adversary who would not be so easily snared. It was exciting. But he began to soften towards her, too. He had seen her there in the garden after dusk, alone. They had shared their anxieties over their sons. She was isolated and frightened, yet she bore it all with such strength and dignity. It was admirable, and he somehow felt a kinship with her, sitting there alone in the moonlight. Suddenly, the loneliness and vulnerability he sensed in her were no longer points of weakness to be exploited.

And then there was Mr. Brotherson, and in him, he had seen the son they missed. He wasn't _her_ son or _his_ son, but _theirs,_ and when he allowed himself moments of reflection, he imagined them a family. A son, so bright and alive. A wife, a partner, an equal to share those hours in the garden.

He was, as he had warned her, _threatened_ her, a man without a woman, an invader, and he had imagined her more than once in the basest terms. Then she had offered herself to him. It was what he had wanted all along, to feel her welcoming body pressed against his. But he pried her fingers from his neck and kept from folding his arms around her as she wept into his chest. Not because he no longer wanted her, but because he _did. _He wanted her, not as the prize in some game, but because she was soft and warm and desirable.

Even as the sun finally crept in the next morning, he lay awake, still reeling, grieving for Manfred and Oskar and thinking of Felicity. He dressed and went downstairs, acknowledging condolences from his officers with a perfunctory nod of the head. Breakfast was left cold and untouched, and he headed out to find her in the greenhouse where he knew she would be.

She was kneeling on the ground beside an unruly bush of the tiniest purple flowers. She was motionless, holding a pair of garden shears on her lap, and staring off into the middle distance with a creased forehead. Her eyes were dry, but they were red-rimmed from earlier tears. Her hair had come loose from its clasp, and her face was pale and drawn. He suspected she had got as little sleep as he had.

He crossed into the greenhouse, removing his hat, and feeling at an uncustomary loss for words. She made a startled little noise when she saw him and froze there like a cornered animal, before rising and beginning to attack the bush with her shears. He let her speak first.

"I trust everything is going according to plan, Baron."

He shook his head and took a hesitant step further into the greenhouse. "I don't understand."

She lowered her shears and turned to him with a flash of anger and hurt in her eyes, making a sweeping gesture between them. "_This_. This _game. _Isn't that what this is? The chocolates? The bicycle tyre? Was the plan to try and intimidate me and seduce me by turns?"

He looked away. She was closer to the truth than she knew. "Felicity…"

"Don't'! Don't you _dare_ use my Christian name." Her voice shook as she spoke. He did not regret what had happened the night before. It was not in his nature. But he was suddenly sorry, _hurt_, that _she_ regretted it so bitterly.

"I apologise," he said quietly after a moment.

"You apologise? For what? You've won. 'The spoils of war?' Isn't that what I am? You've got what you wanted. What do you have to apologise for?" she asked with an acrid smile.

"Mrs. Dorr, I assure you…"

"Please don't. Don't insult me further by denying any of this. Allow me at least that dignity, will you?" She turned away from him for a moment and re-attacked the flowering bush before facing him again with a hand on her hip. "Tell me, did you wager with your men how long it would take for you to bed the Senator's wife? I hope I succumbed just when you thought I would. I'd hate to think I lost you money."

He had no ready words in response. She was right to be angry, but he was surprised how much it stung.

"Well," she went on with a snort. "I'm nothing if not accommodating. Another round of betting, then? Perhaps Flach and Muller would like a go."

He could feel the shame radiate from her, and he did not know what she needed him to say. He wasn't ashamed, and he would not say it.

"Such talk is unworthy of you, Mrs. Dorr," he offered in a firm but hushed voice.

She buckled then, unable to stop the tears that her pride had kept back. He wanted to go to her, to give her the comfort she had given him, but he could not. He stood watching dumbly as an anguished cry erupted from her chest. "Do you have any idea what I've done?" She sobbed for a long moment, unable to speak. "I've betrayed my husband; I've betrayed my country. _You_, everything you stand for, it disgusts me."

She looked at him, one look holding hatred and shame and regret, and he shifted his weight, still with his eyes on hers.

"My God, how I have debased myself and how little it took. A handsome man and brandy and Chopin." She sniffed the tears back in and then turned to him accusingly. "But this is all so easy for you, isn't it? The invading army? The ravening wolf?"

"I assure you, Mrs. Dorr, I find nothing about this easy."

"Good. I had begun to think that perhaps adultery was the prerogative of the German nobility."

"I am married, but my wife and I have not had a real marriage in some years," he said sharply, and then added after a quick breath, "Much like the Senator's and your own."

"My marriage is none of your concern," she said, low and angry.

"Your marriage did not seem to be any of _your_ concern last night."

He had said it to hurt her, as she had hurt him, and his words had their effect. She raised her hand and brought it hard across his face. His head snapped back for a moment, and he could sense the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. When he turned to face her again, she looked back at him in a mixture of surprise and defiance.

"There. I've struck a German officer," she said, her voice still quivering. "What will you do? Throw me in prison or stand me up against a tree in my own orchard?"

He slowly pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed silently at the thin line of blood at the corner of his lip. It was the same handkerchief he had wrapped around her hand weeks earlier in this greenhouse. He stood for a moment, choosing his words carefully and speaking with deliberation.

"My earlier behaviour toward you clearly caused you pain, and for that I apologise. I wish I could say that I did not intend that pain, but I cannot." She was no fool; he owed her at least the honesty. He went on, his voice softening. "We have been friends, you and I, Mrs. Dorr. You are a remarkable woman, as I have said before, and I have found your company most agreeable."

He took a step in to her. He expected her to back away or brandish the shears, but she did not. He risked another step closer. "Last night I received the news that every parent dreads." He paused, taking a long, steadying breath. "With you, I had a moment of comfort, and for that I will always be grateful. I am sorry that you find what passed between us so regrettable. But you will forgive me if I do not share your regret."

He looked back at her, her blue eyes filling with tears, flitting back and forth between his own. Her lips parted slightly, but she didn't speak, and after a moment, he pulled his hat down smartly over his brow. With a slight nod of the head, he turned to go, and left her there standing alone in the greenhouse.

**END CHAPTER SIX**


	7. Chapter 7

**Title: **"The Velvet Dark" Chapter 7**  
Rating: **M just to be on the safe side**  
Notes: **Time to get the Baron away from the house and out of uniform! Thanks as always for reviewing here and on TRA. It's very much appreciated!

XXXXXXX

A storm lashed the west coast of the island overnight, and even from her bedroom she could hear the angry waves rear up and crash against the rocks, as the wind bent the trees in the orchard to breaking. It was fitting, she thought to herself without humour, a natural reflection of her own restless turmoil.

Finally, just before dawn, the storm eased, and she thought she could hear his voice outside, speaking in rushed, clipped tones. Then there was the slam of car doors and the sound of the motor receding in the distance.

She rose and dressed soon afterwards. There was no point in even trying to sleep. She sat on the edge of her bed and tried to make a list for Delphine to take to Tanner's but got as far as eggs and flour before giving up. There was no point in that, either. The only thing she could think of was the feeling of the weight of his body, and his words in the greenhouse the day before.

What she had done would have been wrong under the best of circumstances. Before her terrible…_indiscretion_ with the Baron, James was the only man she had ever been with, the only man she was ever likely to be with again, but she had wondered whilst rehearsing those sparkling, witty scenes from Noel Coward with Urban Mahy what it might be like to make those chaste stage kisses real. But those thoughts were fleeting. She loved him, but her marriage to James had been a quiet, amiable failure. Still, she never imagined she would be unfaithful to him.

And certainly not with a man like the Baron. The horrible truth was that she had always found him attractive, since those first meetings in the garden, with his sharp, blue eyes and that low, seductive murmur of a voice. She had always allowed herself that as long as she could deny him any shred of humanity. That was no longer possible. Not after he had saved Philip, not after he had let her inside his grief, and not after he had opened up a part of himself in the greenhouse in a moment of raw vulnerability.

He spent most mornings at _Sous les Chenes_, and she could always expect to see him striding through the corridors or across the grounds trailed by the Bailiff or one of his men. But the house was unusually quiet that day. She sat in the garden for some time, wondering if he would come to her there, but she remained alone. Finally, as she came in from the garden, she saw Walker ride up to the front of the house on his motorcycle.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Dorr," he said pulling off his gloves. Each time he spoke, it was almost like a taunt. She hesitated for a moment. She found his presence unnerving, and she didn't like the idea of being alone in the house with him.

"Good afternoon." She swept by him without making eye contact, but then turned to him. "I was looking for the Baron," she said, trying to project an air of mild curiosity. "I hadn't seen him all day."

He looked back at her slight amusement and paused before speaking. Felicity shuddered. There was something sinister about him, even in his smile. "And why were you looking for the _Oberst_?"

_None of your business_, she wanted to say. "He wanted to speak to me about a Christmas party next week for the officers. Here at the house." She shrugged and looked down at her watch in apparent indifference. "I really don't have the time to…"

"He is gone, Mrs. Dorr."

There was a small pulling sensation at the centre of her, and her eyes snapped back up to Walker's. "_Gone_? Gone where?"

He raised an eyebrow, surprised at the force of her reaction. "Yes. Back to Germany."

"Oh." She swallowed. "Has he?"

"Yes," he began with a smirk. "To Berlin. War business. Until Monday." He rose from the motorcycle and climbed the steps, standing inches away from her. "It's only a matter of time before we invade England, you know."

He gave her a reptilian smile and entered the house. She had to keep from giving an exhaled breath of relief as he did. The Baron was coming back, and she felt a frisson of excitement tempered with regret.

She realised in the days that followed how much a part of her life his presence had become. She missed him, and it was a terrible realisation, but she would no longer deny it. She had been selfless for too many years, staying for Philip, staying for James. There could be nothing physical between her and the Baron again, but she would allow herself the selfishness of wanting him.

She spent the weekend rattling around the house, worrying for Philip and feeling her isolation keenly. She was told that Philip had been taken to a POW camp, but she hadn't heard from him yet. It was almost Christmas, and she couldn't help but remember the previous year. Philip had been home from Sandhurst; it was the last time she had seen him before he had arrived with Eugene LaSalle. The table groaned under the weight of the food. There were crackers and noisemakers and Philip played while they sang carols round the piano in their silly paper hats. It was wonderful, but the looming war was in everyone's thoughts.

Now that war was no longer the unspoken, and it had taken both James and Philip away.

Monday arrived. It was near four, but this late in the year, the low winter sun was already dipping towards the horizon. She was in the orchard, tending to some saplings that had been battered in the storm the week prior. She could see the drive in front of the house from where she stood, and she found herself looking up in anticipation with every noise. Finally, she saw his car wind through the trees, its flags flapping in the breeze, and pull to a slow halt in front of the house.

He got out, followed by Walker and Muller, and they were deep in conversation. They stopped for a moment at the bottom of the steps into the house. The Baron was speaking, obviously giving instructions of some kind, and the other two nodded compliantly, but then the Baron's eyes fell on hers from across the lawn, and he stopped for a moment. There was a small trace of a smile before he went on to his junior officers. He gestured toward the house; Walker and Muller nodded and went inside.

She watched him there, standing in front of the car. His posture changed, his shoulders dropped, and his hands slipped inside the pockets of his trousers. It was the way he had stood in the garden one afternoon when he had told her of his vineyard and its ruined abbey wall. He paused for a moment, looking back at her, and then strolled down the slope of the hill to where she stood.

She looked up at him, not sure what to say, not sure how they would define their relationship now. She had said terrible things, and they had hurt each other. But they could be civil. Friends, even, if never again lovers.

"Walker tells me you wanted to see me about a Christmas party I am planning for my officers," he said with soft bemusement. She looked away with some embarrassment, having been caught in her lie. There was a pause. He rocked back on his heels. "I am sorry I did not tell you that I was leaving."

"You don't owe me an explanation," she said quietly, fussing with a wounded sapling.

There was another silence as he stood there over her. "I have brought you something. A Christmas gift." He reached his hand into his jacket pocket, and she saw him, another moment in the garden, when he had offered her chocolate and threatened her so crudely. She took a reflexive step back and held her hand up. He paused for a moment, his hand froze, and a flash of regret passed over his face. "It's not that kind of gift," he said softly, and pulled his hand from his pocket. He extended his arm out to her, and he was holding an envelope there. "Please. You should have this."

She reached out hesitantly and pulled the envelope from between his fingers. The envelope was blank, unaddressed. She frowned and looked back up at the Baron, but his eyes were soft, and he gave her a small, reassuring smile. She tore open the envelope and pulled out a small sheet of paper and unfolded it. It was a letter of some kind, and there were a few rushed words scrawled in pencil. Her heart fluttered. She knew that handwriting, its round, looping script.

_Dear Mum,_

_I've just been given a pencil and paper and told I could write a letter to you. I'd better make this quick before they change their minds! I am well. I've finally been moved to an officers' camp in Germany, and they say I'll be able to write and receive mail. The weather has got quite cold, but we are being treated well enough, and on clear days there is a splendid view of the Alps. You mustn't worry about me. I'll be fine. Please take care of yourself. I'll be thinking of you on Christmas Day and hoping that we will all be together again soon. I love you, mum._

_Your Loving Son,_

_Philip_

_P.S. Please send some playing cards and my old chess set when you can. I think they mean to kill us with boredom._

Her eyes had flooded with tears by the time she reached the closing line. She ran her fingertips over the smudged printing, as if she could somehow touch Philip through it. She raised her eyes to the Baron's, but he still looked back at her with the same sympathetic smile. "How did you…?" She shook her head and let her voice trail off. She didn't care. She folded the letter and tucked it carefully back into the envelope like a small, fragile treasure. "Thank you," she said with quiet sincerity, and he looked back at her in the silence that followed.

"Walk with me," he said softly. After a moment, she nodded back, and they started without purpose, strolling through the orchard and then on. These were parts of the estate, untended and neglected, she hadn't seen in ages. Not since before the war. No one spoke, but the air was thick and heavy. There was copse of trees they passed through and then came to a cliff that overlooked the water. The wind was rising, and white-capped, grey waves crashed below them. They stood watching the heavy storm roll in from the Channel.

"When a child's parents dies, he is an orphan. When a man's wife dies, he is a widower," he said after a time. His voice was low and even, almost detached, but Felicity could sense the sadness that crept in at the edges. "I have lost both my sons, and yet there is no word for that."

She turned to him, watching as his jaw tightened and his eyes flitted along the darkening horizon. "Do you have news of your son?"

"No." He turned to her with a weary resignation. She nodded sadly.

"We should be getting back."

She turned and headed back into the trees. After a moment she could hear him following her. The wind had picked up by the time they came back out into the open, and raindrops had begun to hit the hard winter ground. They hurried on, but the sky had darkened, and the rain had quickly become blinding. She had thought they could make it before the skies opened up completely, but the house still loomed in the distance.

"This way!" she called to him over the roar of the wind. She gestured down the path to a small cottage on the edge of the property. He nodded and took her hand as they dashed on, through a puddle and over a downed limb.

She pushed the door open and they fell inside. She fumbled forward along the wall until her fingers found a switch, and a small lamp flickered on. She had been wearing wellies, but she was otherwise drenched. Her skirt was soaked through, and her hair clung to the sides of her face. They stood for a moment, laughing and smiling with relief and shaking the rain from themselves. He unbuttoned his coat and hung it on the back of the chair.

Their smiles eased as they looked at each other across the space of the kitchen. Outside the wind howled and the rain beat against the windows. He turned away and moved restlessly across the floor.

"What is this place?" he asked.

She hadn't been here in almost a year, but it was as she had remembered it. There was a small kitchen with a table and chairs to her left. On her right, a fireplace, two overstuffed chairs, a radio. There was a door at the back, and through it she could see a bed and a wardrobe.

"Gardener's cottage. He joined up last May," she said dryly and crossed into the kitchen. It was tidy, but there was a thin layer of dust over everything. Her finger blackened as she ran it across a row of jars on the shelf above the sink.

"A tin of beans, some sardines, and a jar of pickled eggs. We could have quite a feast," she said with feigned brightness, attempting a laugh that quickly died in her throat. The air was taut; her heart raced. "Clothes…he must have left some clothes…"

"Yes, yes," the Baron said, trying to adopt her air of brisk efficiency. "There is some dry wood here. I can build a fire."

"Yes of course. I'll just get us something to wear," she gestured to the bedroom, and he followed her in as she opened the wardrobe and began to rummage through the clothes the gardener had left. "I'm sure I can find something. He was tall. Quite broad-shouldered." She chattered nervously to fill the space and pulled a pair of trousers and a shirt out. When she turned he was close behind her, breathing in the scent of her hair. It was almost unbearable, but he took the clothes with a murmured thanks and left her there, shutting the door between them.

Even in the cold, she could feel her cheeks flush, and she turned back to the wardrobe to steady her breath. The gardener had been unmarried, and there was nothing for her but an old flannel dressing gown hanging on a peg inside the door. She sighed and slipped out of her wet things.

She waited for some time before creeping back into the next room. He was kneeling there, tending the fire, and the room glowed from it. She made a soft noise, and he rose to his feet to face her. He had changed into the trousers and shirt she had given him. His hair had begun to dry and it fell boyishly into his eyes. Standing there by the cottage fire, he looked like an English farmer or one the island fishermen.

They watched each other for a moment, and then she moved across the floor to him, towards the inevitable, she now knew. She stood in front of him, and he reached up to move a strand of damp hair from her cheek, letting his fingers rest there. Then he let his hand cradle her face, and he pulled her to him, his mouth meeting hers and finding no resistance.

His hands moved lower and pushed the dressing gown from her shoulders, exposing the skin beneath. His mouth followed, kissing her along the curve of her neck and along her collarbone as the dressing gown fell to her waist. She let out an involuntary shiver. He reached up, gently cupping her breasts, and his hands were warm from the fire.

Her fingers found the buttons to his shirt and she worked at them, slowly and deliberately. This would not be some rushed, impetuous moment as it was before. When she had finished the buttons, he pulled the shirt off, and she ran her fingers across his broad chest, kissing him there in the centre. His breathing had quickened; his pulse raced. He moaned softly as she ran her fingers down his torso to his waistband, but then his hands were on hers, pushing them gently away. He kept his eyes on hers as he undid the buttons of his trousers and pushed them to the floor. As he did, she unknotted the tie of the dressing gown and let it fall.

They stood in front of each other, naked. His fingers skimmed across her shoulders and down to the soft rise of her breasts with a tentativeness, but she pulled him back down to her, arms wrapping around his neck. She kissed him hungrily, with urgency, and he responded, moving his hands to the curve at the small of her back and lifting her gently up.

The moved into the bedroom, shivering together, as they cocooned beneath the layer of blankets. He pulled her underneath him, and she felt the warmth of his body on hers. Never looking away, he gently slipped inside of her, and she let out a throaty moan of approval, arching her body into his as he moved above her as smooth as glass.

She closed her eyes as the dormant but familiar feelings began to stir, and her limbs, her whole body seemed to awaken. She was lost in it; her fingers curved down into his legs, urging him forward, and she raised her hips into each thrust with a cry. She opened her eyes to his as he moved above her, holding his weight up on the palms of his hands. His breathing had grown rough and uneven, and she could feel the warmth begin to spread from her middle. And then a groan was pulled from deep within his chest with a final push against her. She met his cry with her own, arching her back, reaching up to slide her hands into his.

He rolled away, and they lay there breathless beneath the blankets. She curled in to face him, a questioning look on her face that he answered by stroking her cheek with his fingertips.

They lay there for a time in silence as the wind outside moaned mournfully through the trees. He drifted off, and she looked down at his still face, trying not to think of _this_ or Philip or James or anything. His eyes flickered open some moments later.

"Felicity," he said simply, as soft as a heartbeat, and she gave him a watery smile.

"I think the rain has stopped," she said.

He crossed into the other room, and she watched as he felt their clothes that hung there to dry. She went in to him, and took her dry things as he tamped down the fire. They began to dress silently, and she felt a small flutter of shame as he pulled on his boots. He stood to rebutton his jacket and brush away the ash that had settled there. He was himself again. He looked up, and seeming to sense her discomfort, he dropped his eyes away.

She crossed to the kitchen and began to rummage through the drawers, pulling out a torch. "We should go before they miss us," she said, and he nodded in agreement.

They moved wordlessly back through the orchard and into the house. It was dark and quiet but for the sound of the stairs creaking as they climbed. She turned to him as they reached the landing, and he smiled down at her, dropping a kiss onto her forehead before heading into his side of the house.

She moved to her room, quickly undressing and slipping between the sheets. Outside she could see the moon had moved from behind the clouds, and it filled her room with a soft blue light. Her eyelids began to grow heavy, and her body felt strangely content as she drifted off. She knew that she might regret this tomorrow or the next day, but for now, all she felt was peace.

**END CHAPTER SEVEN**


	8. Chapter 8

There was an officers' Christmas party at _Sous les Chenes_ after all that Christmas Eve. They brought in a tree they had cut down, probably from her own property, and there was drink and music, floating in to the drawing room where she sat alone. Later in the evening, the mood shifted, and she could hear their hushed, unaccompanied voices singing _Stille Nacht_,and suddenly they were young men far from home and family at Christmas time.

It was almost midnight when he came to her. It seemed silly with James and Philip both gone, but she was determined to carry on with the holiday. She was putting the last of the ornaments on her own tree, and he stood in the doorway for a moment before drifting in. It was the first time they had been alone since their meeting at the cottage.

She broke the silence. "I should be in church now. I always go to church on Christmas Eve."

"But not this year."

She hung another bauble. "I'd probably be run off at the communion rail," she said humourlessly. "Funny about Christians, isn't it? The people least welcomed in church are those most in need of forgiveness."

"Foregiveness? Why do you need to be forgiven?"

"How should one put this?" She gave a bitter snort. "I have given _comfort_ and _succor_ to the enemy."

"Surely I am not your enemy."

"You're not my friend."

She said it without accusation, but he bristled and turned away. They stood for another long moment in the pained silence. She pulled another ornament from the box and stood on her toes, reaching up to hang it on an upper branch. She was tiny and fragile, almost doll-like with her blue eyes and porcelain skin. He watched her struggle for a moment before crossing and gently taking the bauble from her hand.

"Let me," he said softly.

"It's my tree. I can do it," she said with half-hearted protest as he easily slid the hook onto one of the highest branches.

"There," he said, and they both took a step back. There was the smell of evergreen and the light glinted off the gold and silver of the ornaments.

"You're not at your party," she said after a pause.

"No."

"I remember the last party at this house. You left that one, too. I found you in here, and you ordered me to sit down." She turned to him. "Do you remember that?"

"Yes," he said pointedly. "It was the day young LaSalle was shot."

Her lips parted; she frowned. She had never connected the two events before, Eugene's execution in her orchard and the Baron's drunken behaviour. It had never occurred to her that the young man's death might have caused him any distress.His conduct had been inexcusable, but perhaps a bit more understandable.

They stood there by the tree, eyes locked, as the clock on the mantle chimed midnight.

"Merry Christmas," he said simply.

She blinked back tears. "Merry Christmas."

The room was still then, and he took a halting step towards her. It was Christmas. They were alone and aching for their sons. She wanted him; she _needed_ him. She needed the comfort of him, to feel his arms around her. She needed to be desired.

She didn't protest as he smoothed the hair from her face and leaned down to brush his lips against hers. She moaned softly into the kiss and let him pull her against him. Finally, she pushed him away to break the kiss and moved past him with a glance over the shoulder before she left the room.

She could hear him follow her, and they climbed the steps silently, moving to her bedroom, where they slowly undressed each other without the awkwardness of first-tine lovers. He lowered her onto the bed, where they made love in the dark hours of Christmas day.

Afterwards, she lay in his arms, listening to the steady sound of his heartbeat.

"Will you meet me? In the gardener's cottage. I want to see you." His voice rumbled up out of his chest with longing.

She opened her mouth, planning to say no. This couldn't continue. It was an awful, terrible thing, and she felt it each time she saw him in that hateful uniform. She had the sickening memory of him giving that hideous salute to his men on the balcony of the George Hotel, and at night when she lay alone in her own room, she felt the burn of shame.

It was what she meant to say, but instead she moved in closer against him. "Yes. I'll meet you."

January 1941 was bookended by two pieces of news.

The week after Christmas, storms continued their assault on the island. Then the rough weather seemed to pass away along with the old year, and in the early days of January, the skies were crisp and blue.

She was at the cottage when he found her. She heard his rushed, uneven footsteps on the gravel outside and paused at the sink where she rinsed a teacup. He staggered inside; his breathing was unsteady, and she could see his hands shaking. Her stomach lurched as she turned to him, and he looked at her with stunned disbelief.

"What is it? What's wrong?" She took a fearful step forward.

"Oskar…" It was all he said. His voice shook and tears were visible in his eyes. A hand went to her mouth; she drew her breath in fearing for the worst. And then against all hope, he said it. "He is alive."

She found herself moving across the floor to him and spontaneously throwing her arms around him. He spoke in a rush. "He was badly injured...but he's alive…in hospital in England."

"Then they're safe," she said prayerfully and cried tears of relief for him. "Both our boys. They're out of this war."

She held his face in her hands, and he kissed her, his fingers skimming from her waist up to the gentle outer curve of her breast as she let out a noise of pleasure. He moved inside the cottage, and they undressed each other, gliding into the bedroom. When they had made love before, it was out of a mutual need for comfort. This was different. It was joyous and unbridled, and afterwards, they talked with sleepy contentment.

"I suppose I can't really go on calling you 'Baron', can I?" she said dryly. "Heinrich. Not very romantic, is it? Do you have a nickname?"

"I was called 'Hinz' as a boy," he murmured, stroking little circles on her arm with his fingertips.

"Were you ever a boy?" she asked, looking up into his face with a bittersweet smile.

Later, she rose from the bed for a glass of water in the kitchen and crossed to where the dressing gown lay draped over the back of the chair. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror in the corner of the room. She wasn't a young girl; she was a wife, a mother. In all her years with James, he had never seen her like this, completely naked, and she self-consciously folded her arms across her breasts and middle.

Then she turned full on, letting her arms drop to her sides. Slowly, she lifted a hand and ran it across the rise of her breasts and down to her narrow waist. Her body had a softness that came with time and maternity, but she was _desirable_. Her body had awakened to it, and as if to confirm it, she looked in the mirror at the man behind her. He was lying with one arm tucked behind his head, watching her with an appreciative smile.

She forgot the water and returned to the bed. He lifted the covers for her, and she slipped in beside him, where he covered her body with his mouth, moving down across the arch of her neck, her breasts, down across her belly to that spot behind her knees.

They met there often in the evenings, and on nights when they didn't, she missed him with a physical ache. During the day when she was about her business in the greenhouse or in the kitchen at _Sous les Chenes_, she would think of the feeling of his body against hers, his fingers brushing against her exposed skin, and she would have to steady herself until she could breathe.

On some evenings, they would make love silently and gently under the blankets in the cottage. She had forgotten, if she had ever really known, that human beings could touch each other this way. Other evenings, they would sit by the fire and talk about their boys. He still grieved for Manfred. He always would, she knew. But he had Oskar, and it seemed to give him new life.

It was the last week of January when the second piece of news came. There was an unusually pleasant spell of weather. At the end of their evenings in the cottage, they would always make their way to the house and part there. Perhaps it was the springlike weather or perhaps the passage of time had made them careless, but after they made love that night, they had drifted off into sleep without meaning to.

She thought she heard a noise outside. A voice, a knock on the door. In her state of half-sleep, she ignored it. And then she was aware of movement in the bed. When she opened her eyes, he was sitting on the side of the bed yanking his boots on.

She pulled herself up to her elbows. "What time is it?" she asked drowsily.

"It's gone eight," he snapped and rose from the bed.

It was then she realised that light was seeping in through the curtains. She sprang from the bed and frantically grabbed up her clothes. "I thought I heard something…knocking…" she said, searching the floor for a stray shoe, but he only shook his head. "What will happen? Will they have missed us?"

"Not if we hurry," he said urgently as he did up the last of his buttons.

He waited until she was finished before they hurried out of the cottage. It was fully light when they stepped outside. There was ground to cross before they reached the house, and he reached for her hand to help her up the slope.

It was then she heard the noise, movement from the side of the cottage, and Muller came from around the corner.

He saw his superior officer first and opened his mouth to speak, but then he was aware of Felicity standing behind him. Muller's eyes widened, Felicity slipped her hand from the Baron's, and the three stood frozen in a moment.

"What is it, Muller?" the Baron asked coolly.

Muller's jaw pumped noiselessly. His eyes moved back and forth between the two. "I'm…_sorry,_ sir…"

"What _is_ it?"

"It's…" Muller's eyes fell on Felicity. He licked his lips nervously. "I thought you should know immediately, sir. It's the Senator. He's just been released from prison."

**END CHAPTER EIGHT**


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE**

She was at the harbour, waiting for James' return, and hoping it would be the way it had been in her dream. His boat would glide into the slip, and he would come to her with those words– _I understand_ – and everything would be all right again.

Then she looked down, to where in her anxiety she had wrapped her handkerchief so tightly around her hand that her fingertips had turned purple, swollen with blood. She unwound the handkerchief and watched as the blood rushed back into her hand. Things would not be all right. If she was not even able to fully forgive herself for what had happened, then she could not expect James to.

There was a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach as she watched the ferry from France chug into the harbour. A landser came off first and eyed her with indifference as he tied the boat to the dock. She waited, still absently clutching the handkerchief around her hand. And then a woman in a German nurse's uniform came off. She saw Felicity and turned to signal to someone in the boat.

Two landsers behind the nurse were struggling with something large and heavy. Where was James? He was meant to be on this ferry. Felicity looked down with apprehensive eyes, and then realised in mounting fear that they were carrying a person, and it was James. The landsers had slung his arms over their shoulders, and they were supporting his weight as he dragged his feet along the dock.

She hurried toward him before she was held back by another landser. "What have you done to him?"

She could see over the landser's shoulders. James' face was pale and drawn, and he wore several days of beard stubble. He had lost a stone or more, and the shirt collar hung open around his neck.

The nurse barked something to the landser in German, and the young man let her go. She stumbled past him to where James was being led up the dock. "James, are you all right?" she asked in a panic, but he seemed not to see or hear her. She turned to the nurse. "What have you _done_ to him?"

"He has had pneumonia," the nurse said brusquely. "He is over the worst, but he is very weak."

"_Pneumonia?_ What sort of conditions have you been keeping him in?" But the nurse only shrugged.

Felicity staggered alongside them as the landsers dropped him into the back of the requisitioned car she had been allowed to use. The borrowed driver looked on in only mild interest and slammed the door behind Felicity as she slid in next to James.

He was sitting with his head lolled against the seat back, and she laid her hands gently on the sides of his face. "James, are you all right?" She could feel tears sting at the back of her eyes. "You're home now. You're safe."

He seemed to hear her then. His eyes fluttered open and a trace of a smile flickered across his face. "Felicity…"

He reached up to stroke her cheek with a wavering hand, but she grabbed it and held it in her own. "I'm here."

"I can't believe you're real…" he managed to choke out.

"Ssssh. Don't try and talk. I'm taking you home."

His eyelids fluttered shut again, and he slept until they reached _Sous les Chenes._ The driver took off as soon as they unloaded him from the car, leaving her to struggle up the steps with him. She was crying hot tears of frustration when Muller came out of the house and saw them there. She looked up at him helplessly, and their eyes met in understanding. He came down to slip a supporting arm around James.

"Thank you, Capt. Muller," she muttered quietly, and he nodded in sympathetic response.

They passed Delphine on the way into the house, and she threw her hands up to her face when she saw them there. "Mrs. Dorr! What is it? What's wrong?"

"Pneumonia," Felicity said tersely. "Call Dr. LaVallee. And bring up some beef tea, Delphine. _Now._"

The girl nodded mutely, and Felicity could hear her rushed footsteps running back to the kitchen as she and the captain struggled with James' dead weight up the stairs and into his bedroom.

She panted breathlessly as they dropped him down into the bed, and she knew Muller was struggling for something to say. His help had been welcome, but she wasn't sure she could face him now, not after what he had seen. She slipped James' shoes off and finally, Muller turned to go.

She undressed James like a child and put him in a fresh pair of pyjamas as he seemed to slip in and out of a state of wakefulness. She eased him in to bed, and there was a welcome rush of events and visitors. Delphine came in with the beef tea. She was near hysteria, and Felicity had to hurry her out. Then Dr. LaVallee came in, looking very grave, and she stood nodding calmly as he gave her instructions and swept out again with that same look on his face.

Finally, they were gone, and she sat by James' bedside as he slept. His skin had taken on an ashy pallor, and his breathing was uneasy. It was then the feeling seemed to rush back into her, the way the blood had run from her fingers into her hand at the harbour. She couldn't imagine what he had been through in prison while she had been sipping the Baron's Riesling, and her guilt was almost unbearable.

She lost track of the time. It was some hours later, past sunset, when his breathing eased. He stirred in his bed and his eyelids fluttered open again. She leaned down with a hopeful smile.

"Felicity…" he croaked, his voice rough and strained.

"I'm here, James."

He struggled to sit up, and she held the mug of beef tea to his lips. He drank, and then leaned back against the headboard.

"I'm so sorry…"

She frowned in confusion. "What do you have to be sorry about?"

"I left you here. On your own. With that man."

"It wasn't your fault, darling." She smiled weakly and pressed her hand against his damp forehead.

"Still…" He cocked his head and gave her a soft, admiring smile. "You're a very brave woman."

"Don't talk. Save your strength."

She smiled down into his face as his eyes fell shut again, and she eased him back onto the pillow. She watched him sleep peacefully for some time before turning the light out and tip-toeing from his room.

She was exhausted; her arms and legs felt as if they were made of lead, but she headed downstairs and out into the cold. It was snowing lightly, just a dusting of flurries. It wouldn't amount to anything, but the icy flakes stung against her cheeks. It was welcome. It almost felt to her like a deserved punishment.

The Baron was there. It was as if he had been waiting for her and knew she would come. She fished a cigarette from her case with trembling hands but said nothing.

"How is the Senator?" he asked in genuine concern.

"He's very weak, but Dr. LaVallee says he's through the worst."

He crossed to her and sat next to her on the bench. His nearness would not make this any easier.

He waited for a long while before speaking. His voice was gentle but firm. "This changes nothing, Felicity."

"This changes _everything_. Don't you see that?" He voice was bitter. "He nearly died in that godforsaken prison while I was the mistress of the German commandant."

"Your husband's imprisonment was a situation of his own making," he said with cold directness. "He's fortunate he didn't end up facing a firing squad."

She turned her face to his. "How can you say that? Are you really that unfeeling?"

He looked away from her for a moment, hurt. How, after all that had happened, could she still consider him unfeeling? "So beautiful and noble you are in your suffering, Felicity," he murmured to her with a coolness. "Tell me, for whom are you suffering?"

"If James finds out about us…"

"What? What will he do? Challenge me to a duel? Thirty paces at dawn?" The Baron snorted and shook his head. "Unless I am mistaken, and I am not, you would be in England right now if Whitehall hadn't failed to inform us the island was undefended."

"No. It's not true." He was right, of course, but she had already risen to go before his arm reached out, grabbing her wrist before she could pass.

He took a slow step forward, and she felt herself retreating against the tree. He took another step in, pinning her there. "How long has it been since the Senator shared your bed?"

"Don't…"

He leaned in, his mouth close to hers. "What do you want, Felicity?"

"Stop this…please." She put a hand up against his chest, her fingers brushing against his buttons. "My place is with my husband."

"Tell me that you don't want me."

"I don't want you."

"I don't believe you."

She let out an anguished cry and pushed against him. "Stop it! _Stop_ it! Is this what you meant? The _invader_ coming out? I'm not some wounded animal just before the kill! Don't I get any say in the matter?" She looked across the space between them, breathless.

He spoke, breaking the tense silence that followed. "I am not the barbarian you think I am, Felicity. The decision is yours, of course. I have always admired your courage. But I am wondering if you have the courage to do what it is you really want rather than what you think is right."

He left her there then, sweeping past her and back into the house, as the snowflakes fell against her reddened cheeks.

It was the last time she spoke to him for days. It was for the best. She had convinced herself of that, no matter how much she still wanted him.

James' condition continued to improve as he regained his strength, and she rarely left his side. She became an expert at fending off visitors. The Bailiff came, and they had a tense but civil exchange in the foyer, where she assured him she would pass along his good wishes, but the Senator really wasn't up to receiving guests. She scrambled in a panic, knowing that word would eventually reach James of what Angelique and LaPalotte had seen that night. She wouldn't wish that shame on him. This island and his reputation on it were too important to him, they were everything, and she had taken that away. This war was likely to drag on for years. Her affair with the Baron was over, but how could James continue to live with her, sharing the house with her lover? It was an impossible situation.

She lay in bed, trying to read a book without much success, when there was a light knock at the door. For a fraction of a second, she felt her heart rush in absurd anticipation, but then she heard the voice.

"Felicity?" he asked in a rough whisper. "Are you awake?"

"Come in, James."

He entered timidly and stood there next to her bed in his dressing gown and pyjamas. His brows were drawn down, and his hands were stuck nervously in the pockets of his dressing gown.

"What is it, James?" she asked in concern. He lowered himself on the edge of her bed.

"I'm feeling much better. I owe it all to you, really. You never left my bedside those first days."

"I couldn't leave you," she said with a teary smile. He _was_ looking better. His colour had returned, and he was continuing to put weight on to the point that his clothes weren't hanging off of him like a scarecrow anymore. He still tired easily, but he would even spend an hour or two each day at his desk, going over papers that Angelique couriered over.

"Dr. LaVallee says I'm well enough to go back to the Senate, if I want."

Her eyes widened. "You can't!"

"Why ever not?"

"How will you get there? We don't have a car."

"I'll cycle in."

"You're not well enough. Are you trying to kill yourself?"

He held up a hand to stop her. "It's all right. Senator Phillips' oldest son has a tandem bicycle. He's willing to ride me into the Senate every day."

She swallowed hard and nodded, knowing she couldn't keep him from his precious Senate if he wanted it.

"Felicity…" he started uneasily and licked his lips. "I hate myself for asking this, so I'll understand you if you hate me, too."

"James, what is it? You're frightening me."

"I know before I left I said I'd understand if…" He looked away, and her heart sank.

"James…"

"Please," he said imploringly. "You said once he was 'a handsome man in the velvet dark.' I need to know. Did anything…did anything happen with the Baron when I was gone?"

She took a deep breath and blinked back tears. "When you go back to the Senate, you will _hear things_." He nodded and looked away, embarrassed. "People will gossip. That's the way it has always been here, you know that."

"But is it _true?_ Please, I know you must hate me, but I have to know. It was all I could think about in prison. You, here alone with him. I told myself if I made it through, I'd do everything I could to try and make you happy here. I do so want you to be happy, darling."

He looked down at her with that same pleading look on his face. She took his hands in hers. "Nothing happened. Believe it. If you believe it, the others will."

He crumpled with relief and lifted her hands to his lips. "Thank you."

He leaned down for a kiss, and afterwards, she looked back at him with a comforting smile. Then something flickered in his eyes, a look she recognised but hadn't seen in some time. She felt a moment of dread pass over her. He leaned in again, his lips lingering for a moment longer against hers. He reached his hand up and pushed her nightgown from her shoulder, moving his mouth down and burying it in the curve of her neck.

"James, please…" she said in weak protest, but his hands were already working across her body, kneading into her flesh.

His breathing had roughened, he was panting against her as he moved her onto her back. She turned her head away from his and lay still as he groped down and pulled her nightgown above her hips.

He pushed inside her with a grunt, and she drew in her breath through her teeth. She could feel his hot breath coming in ragged gasps against her neck as he bore down on her. He finished quickly with one final thrust, emptying into her with a guttural groan.

He pulled himself up to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. He tightened the drawstring on his pyjama bottoms in silence, as she quickly pushed the hem of her nightgown down to cover herself. He rose when he had finished and looked back down at her, one hand on the doorknob. "Good night, my darling."

She rolled over onto her side after he had gone and cried a shower of silent tears.

**END CHAPTER NINE**


	10. Chapter 10

**TITLE:** "The Velvet Dark" Chapter 10  
**RATING:** M for moderate amounts of smut and bad language  
**DISCLAIMER:** Still don't own 'em, but I wish I know who did!  
**NOTES: **Thanks as always for reading and reviewing, here and at TRA. Your nice comments are really wonderful.

XXXXXXXXX

Her hands shook as she sat with a cigarette in the garden the next morning.

Sex with James had always been like that: quick, clumsy, and passionless. And then satisfied, he would kiss her fondly and fall asleep, or after they had begun to sleep separately, go back to his own bedroom. It was always something she knew she had to get on with. There was nothing else for her to compare the sex to, and she had tried to convince herself over the years that this was simply the way it was meant to be between a man and a woman. Now that she had felt another man's touch, she knew better, and her intimacy with James had become intolerable.

She wasn't aware that the Baron had come down the path toward the garden until he appeared from around the tree, watching her with narrowed eyes.

"Where is your husband?"

She held the cigarette against her lips. "He's gone back to the Senate today."

He walked farther into the garden and watched her there as she kept her face turned away from him.

"You've been crying," he said with concern

"I haven't."

He knelt in front of her, pulling her hands away from her eyes. They were puffy and red-rimmed. "Something is wrong. What is it?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does." She tried to turn away, but he caught her face in his hand. "Has he hurt you?"

She shuddered and dropped her eyes away from his. "No. He hasn't hurt me."

"Then what is it?" She only shook her head as her chin began to quiver. He rose and stood in front of her. When he spoke, his voice was threatening. "If he has forced himself…"

"No, _no_! It wasn't like that." She looked up at him. His face was cold, his jaw muscles tight. Finally, he crossed and sat next to her on the bench.

"I don't like him touching you."

There was a pause while she finished her cigarette. "He _is_ my husband," she said ruefully.

They sat for a long moment in the silence of two lovers whose affair had come to an end.

"I should hate you," she said evenly.

"But you don't."

"No."

She slowly rose from the bench and walked into the house, feeling like a lamb to the slaughter.

He still continued to be weakened by his pneumonia, but James was a man reborn that day on his return from the Senate and in the weeks that followed. He had his life's purpose back; he was in the thick of things, and with the Bailiff slipping more and more into his dotage, he had become the island's _de facto_ leader.

He made no more visits to her bedroom, she was relieved, but he had become more possessive, more jealous of her time. If she went for a cigarette on the porch or in the garden in the evening, he insisted with a bright smile that he would come along, too.

She _tried_, she truly did. She had known he would eventually return home from prison, and they would resume their married life. Even after their physical relationship faded, she had always been fond of him, loved him even, but the situation had changed. They were stuck together in this house, in this marriage, for the duration of the war. Nothing could change that. But the fact was that she loved someone else, and it made her life with James almost unbearable.

It was several weeks after James returned home. The day was cold but bright and held the promise of the coming spring. It had always been her favourite time of year here. With the newly budded flowers, it reminded her so much of England. But this year, she scarcely seemed to notice. She had become deadened to it, and a day was simply something to be got through.

She stood at the potting table in the greenhouse dropping seeds into tiny pots and trying to force herself into her usual spring routine when she became aware that someone had entered the greenhouse.

"I'll be in in a moment. Would you tell Delphine to start the tea?" she said, assuming it was James coming to check on her, as he had begun to do. She turned then, and saw the Baron, standing in the doorway with the sunlight at his back.

She hadn't seen him in days, and the sight of him again, standing so straight in his uniform sent a pink flush across her cheeks. She had thought, foolishly, that telling herself she didn't want him would make it so.

He crossed to her wordlessly, removing his hat and dropping his gloves inside, and standing in front of her. There was a calmness about him, he smiled down at her, and she felt her heart begin to skitter.

He lifted his hand up, brushing it gently against her chin and tilting her face up. She felt herself shiver at his touch. With the other hand, he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and ran it down her cheek, wiping away a smudge of soil.

"There," he said softly, tucking the handkerchief back into his pocket. His hand still cupped her face, and he left it there, his thumb stroking a soft circle and then brushing across her lips.

Every nerve stood on end; the air crackled. She reached up, curling her arm around his wrist, and then she moved in slowly to him until their bodies met. In an instant, his mouth was on hers, his tongue parting her lips and flicking against her teeth and tongue. She moaned and laced her fingers around his neck, pulling him in deeper.

He made a sweep of his arm across the table, sending the little pots crashing against each other, and then lifted her there, moving between her legs as her knees fell open. Their breathing was ragged and shallow; fingers fumbled with buttons, and his jacket was abandoned on the floor.

With his mouth still on hers, he moved one hand up the soft skin of her inner thigh and found the lace edge of her pants. His fingers brushed across soft, nether hair, slipping inside of her as she shivered against him and gave a small whimper of assent.

She leaned her head back, moving her hips against his hand as fingers slid in and out of her, stroking her folds and working her towards a dizzying peak. Moving closer between her legs, he slipped inside of her with a fluid stroke.

"Oh, God. Please," she said in a moan, wrapping her hands around his back and pulling each thrust deeper.

He moved his lips against her ear, sending a small shiver snaking up her spine. "Say my name."

"Hinz…Heinrich…" she murmured back to him in throaty whisper. "I need you."

She pressed her face against his shoulder, biting down lightly through the fabric of his shirt to dampen her cries, as he pushed against her with a final thrust and she shuddered around him.

They stood breathlessly like that for a long moment, his forehead pressed against hers, before he withdrew and redid his trouser buttons in a contented silence. With a final kiss, he slipped his arm around her waist and lowered her back onto the floor.

She was aware then of movement outside, a flash of something through the glass. Her hand flew to her chest as she realised in horror what it was.

"Oh, God, James…"

He had stepped inside the greenhouse, and he stood there with his arms hanging down at his sides, his hands clenched into fists. He looked back and forth between them, hurt and rage roiling beneath the surface.

"How long have you been there, Senator?" the Baron asked with almost casual calm.

"Long enough." His chest rose and fell with anger, and his voice shook. He turned to Felicity, eyes brimming with disgust. "You lied to me. You told me nothing had happened. And please don't tell me this was the first time. Don't insult me further."

"No. It wasn't the first time," she said wearily. She was almost relieved he knew. But not like this.

"You _lied_. I _believed _you. I would have _defended_ you. I felt the stares of everyone in the Senate. Oh, they'd never say anything, but I knew what they were thinking. You've made me a fool and a cuckold. With a jack-booted murderer." His mouth twisted into a bitter smile. "What else have you lied about? Or were you fucking Urban Mahy as well?"

The word hit her like physical force. She had never seen this side of James. It was ugly and brutal. "James, please…"

"Your language is inappropriate, and your conduct is beneath you, Senator," the Baron snapped. James let out a sarcastic snort.

"Oh, now, that _is_ rich. You've made her a _whore_, and you're worried about her honour?"

"James, stop it, for God's sake! Please…don't do this now." She pressed her knuckles against her lips.

"No, I think we should do this now. Why prolong this?" the Baron said in that amiable way that masked a cold menace. "You are an honourable man, Senator, and I am truly sorry that you had to find out in such a _humiliating_ manner, but your marriage has been over for some time, has it not?"

"She's still my wife."

"You don't deserve her."

"And you do?" He turned to Felicity, and she looked away in shame. "Have you forgotten what he did to Eugene LaSalle? Have you? My God, you disgust me."

"What do you propose we do about this, Senator?" the Baron said coolly. Felicity watched with fear, suddenly sensing this was all about to go horribly wrong. He was so calm, so cool. It was as if he were mocking James, who stood panting and livid, beginning to spiral out of control.

"Leave my wife alone."

"No."

A rough smile pulled at one corner of the James' mouth as he removed his jacket and tossed it on the table. "I should have finished you off when I had the chance."

She stepped in between them and held her hands up. "James, please don't do this."

"I will not fight you, Senator."

The Baron did not move, even as James raised his fists. "I thought not. All bullies are cowards in the end."

"I won't be _fought_ over!" she yelled tearfully. "Stop it! Both of you!" She turned to the Baron, but he was now rolling his shirtsleeves up with a mocking smile.

"The last time we met, Senator, I let my guard down. I underestimated you. It won't happen again."

She frantically tried to pin James' arms to his side. "James, you're not well!"

"Stop it. You've done enough, Felicity." He pushed her out of the way, and she took a stumbling step backwards.

"James, _please_!" She came towards him again, reaching out for his arm. "He'll kill you!"

"I said _enough!_" Both hands were on his shoulders, pushing her back hard.

It was as if it were happening in slow motion then. She felt herself falling backwards, arms windmilling, turning. She could see it coming towards her, and she reached out on instinct to break her fall as her arms, her body fell through the glass sides of the greenhouse.

It was a curious sensation; there was no pain, but it as if she were watching herself. Someone called her name, and she raised her arms up, watching as blood pumped out of her arms with each heartbeat.

"Oh, God, Felicity…I didn't mean it…I didn't mean it." James stood numbly as the Baron crossed to her and knelt down next to her. She winced in pain as he took her hand.

"Felicity? Can you hear me?"

"I'm all right," she said, but already her voice had that distant, drowsy sound.

"Get a doctor!" the Baron called over his shoulder at James, who looked on in mute horror. "_Get a doctor! Now! _"

She could see James finally stagger out of the greenhouse. The Baron pressed a bloodied hand against her cheek. His lips moved, forming her name, but there was no sound.

And then all was black.

**END CHAPTER TEN**


	11. Chapter 11

**NOTES:** If there had been another series of "Island at War," I suspect that Felicity and the Baron would not have been given a very happy ending. I just can't imagine a realistic conclusion where the two of them walk hand-in-hand into the sunset. I had originally mapped out a subdued but bittersweet ending of sorts for the two, and I think if I were writing an actual series 2 or a novelisation of the series, that is the direction I'd head in. However, this is fanfic, and as I've said before, if you can't go OTT in fanfic, when can you? So, the challenge is to write a romantic, dramatic story with a happy ending and still make it as realistic as possible in the context of the original series and this story so far without being too much like a cheap romance novel. Someday, I might write the original ending I intended, but this isn't it! Enjoy, and don't call out the cliché police just yet.

XXXXXXXXXXX

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

The first thing she was aware of was the sensation of being pulled towards something, and then there was the feeling of harsh light against her skin. Her eyelids fluttered open, and she was dimly aware of an unfocused pain from somewhere within.

She was in bed, not her own. The walls were painted a bright, antiseptic white, and there was movement in the room. Someone was there. She blinked her eyes against the glare of the light and realised that it was Cassie Mahy, pouring a glass of water from a carafe on the nightstand.

Her mouth had the thick, dry feeling of cotton wool. She peeled her tongue from the roof of her mouth and tried to speak, but what followed was only a small noise of pain.

Cassie turned to her, and then leaned down with the glass of water in her hand, slipping an arm under Felicity's shoulders to lift her to the rim of the glass. Felicity swallowed a mouthful and let the water coat her throat as Cassie lowered her back onto the pillow. She could the feel pain sharpen. It was in her arms, and a series of disjointed images flashed through her mind. Glass, blood.

She tried to lift her arms, but she couldn't, and a sharp stab of pain shot through her. Cassie put a light hand on her wrist and spoke in clipped tones. "You fell. In your greenhouse. You're in hospital. Do you remember?"

The memory flooded back into her consciousness. The Baron and James, the greenhouse, the sickening, split-second realisation that she was going to fall through the glass. She raised her head and looked down at her arms. They had been wrapped in thick white bandages, and spots of blood still seeped through the gauze.

Cassie waited a beat, and then went on in her blunt way. "Most of the cuts were relatively minor, but you had a small arterial cut as well. Luckily, Dr. LaVallee managed to stop the bleeding in time, or you would've died."

Felicity nodded numbly as Cassie turned back to the nightstand and refilled the water glass. She was wearing a plain dress and had a kerchief tied around her head in sort of a makeshift nurse's uniform.

"What are you doing here?" Felicity managed to choke out.

"It's been some time, but I trained as a nurse in the Great War. I've been helping the doctor when he needs me." She nodded her chin toward the matron, who eyed them suspiciously from the other end of the ward. "He doesn't trust that one. Nor do I."

Cassie turned and pulled the curtain partition closed with a hard yank. "There's something else, and I suspect it's the reason Dr. LaVallee asked me to assist." She took a step closer to the bed and looked down at Felicity. "You lost a great deal of blood." She took a quick breath in. "But your baby is safe."

Unbidden tears sprang to Felicity's eyes. She had suspected it for days now, but the thought of it was too awful to contemplate. Cassie continued matter-of-factly. "Early October by the look of things." Felicity's mind reeled backwards as she did the sums, but Cassie went on. "It would have been some time in mid-January, I should think."

_Mid-January._ There was a heart-stopping moment of realisation. She turned her face toward Cassie's, but the other woman only looked down at her without emotion. Mrs. Mahy knew. Of course she knew. James hadn't returned until the end of January, and even then, he had been weak with pneumonia. She had been with James only once since he had returned from prison, and that was in early March, just a few weeks earlier. Cassie Mahy knew. The child Felicity was carrying was not her husband's.

It seemed as if her life had become a series of bitter ironies. She had desperately tried to have another child after Philip was sent away to school, and James was happy to give her something to occupy her time. Almost a year later, she had finally given up, with the sad realization that a child couldn't fill the empty space between them. She had moved out of the room they had shared, and they continued to drift away from each other.

Felicity took in a steadying breath, but her voice was strained and broken. "Does James know?"

"About the baby? Yes," Cassie said quickly. "But the doctor neglected to tell him how far along you are. He thought it was best to leave it to you."

The silent, hot tears of shame continued to roll down Felicity's cheeks as Cassie walked briskly around the bed and tucked the covers under her. "Your husband found you. He said you fell from a step ladder trying to water some hanging baskets in the greenhouse."

"I don't remember what happened," Felicity said with perhaps a bit too much force.

"Do you remember who found you there? Only…the commandant was here earlier. Asking after you. He seemed quite concerned. And he appeared to be covered in your blood."

Felicity looked away in shame, her lip trembling.

"You'll get no judgement from me, Mrs. Dorr," Cassie said with a small shrug. "It's been this way since time began, really. Men, going off to war with their clubs and their longbows and their tanks. And we women are left behind to pick up the pieces. We do what we have to do to survive."

Cassie looked up at Felicity and studied her face for a moment before speaking. "And we are survivors," she said with simplicity. "You and I, Mrs. Dorr."

A moment of understanding passed between the two women. In Felicity's own social set, women talked in meaningless circles, and she admired Mrs. Mahy's unsentimental directness. She suspected that they might have been friends if circumstances had been different.

Cassie's eyes fell back to the bed, and she continued tucking the covers in. Felicity sniffed hard against the tears.

"There was nothing between Urban and me, Mrs. Mahy."

Cassie went on without looking up. "I know."

"He loved you very much."

She stopped for a moment, her hands frozen against the blanket, still not looking up, but then she tucked the last of the covers under. "I know." She rose then and looked down at Felicity with her hands folded in front of her, her lips pressed into a thin line. There was nothing terribly sympathetic in her eyes, but there was no accusation, either. "Your husband will want to see you now that you're awake. Shall I bring him in?"

She didn't wait for Felicity to respond, but turned to the door leading out of the ward.

"What do I tell him?" Felicity asked in a thin, panicky voice.

Cassie turned back to her with another small shrug before heading out into the corridor. "Tell him whatever you think he needs to know, Mrs. Dorr."

Felicity tried to brace herself, and a few moments passed before James burst into the ward. He was pale, wild-eyed, and unshaven, and he stumbled to her, pulling in a chair close to her bedside.

She could see that he had been crying, and tears still rimmed his eyes. He leaned in to kiss her forehead before sinking in the chair with his hand still resting against her shoulder.

He licked his lips, and she knew that he was struggling for something to say. "Does it hurt very much?" She said nothing in response, and he raised his hand to stroke the side of her cheek. "I was sick with worry," he said with a broken voice. "I don't know what I'd do if I lost you, Felicity. I can't bear the thought."

"I'm still here," she said with an even coolness. If the war had never happened, they would still be sharing the house in amiable indifference. Even if she had evacuated, they might have been able to go on in a kind of civilised estrangement, meeting up for holidays and family occasions after the war. She had been fond of him, loved him, even, but any warmth and affection she had had for him had shattered in the greenhouse.

"I know about the baby, Felicity." His voice had dropped to a strained whisper, and he continued to stroke her cheek rhythmically. His fingers were rough against her face. "Is there…is there any chance…?" He stopped, unable to say the words.

She bit her lip for a moment, knowing everything that came after would rise from this instant. The image of the Baron holding her hand on the greenhouse floor, covered in her blood, shot through her mind, but it was quickly replaced by the memory of her coupling with James.

What good could possibly come from telling the truth? It would destroy James. He'd issue some ridiculous challenge, and she knew this time the loser would emerge with more than a loosened tooth. If he emerged at all. And what then? Would she and the German commandant set up housekeeping in the gardener's cottage? Or with James conveniently out of the way, would they take up residence at _Sous les Chenes?_ It was absurd.

Of course, the truth would most likely come out when the baby was born earlier than expected. But she had to play for time, even if it made her situation that much more impossible. Neither James nor the Baron could know the truth for now, and she knew there was only one thing she could say to her husband as he looked at her with pleading eyes.

"It's yours, James."

"Oh, thank God." His shoulders began to shake, and he let out a relieved sob. "Don't you see, Felicity? It's as if we've been given another chance. The second child we could never have." She winced as he reached out and put a protective hand on her abdomen. "I don't blame you, Felicity, I blame myself. I put you in an intolerable position, leaving you alone like that. He's a very powerful man, and I can't imagine how frightened you must have been, darling. What else could you do?"

He paused for a moment, still stroking her cheek with one hand, letting the implication of his words settle in. "But that's all behind us." He spoke to her in a hushed, sing-songy way, as if she were a child who had awoken from a nightmare. "You'll have nothing more to do with him, darling, and we can be a family again."

His face darkened again, and his chin began to quiver. "It was an accident. You do know that, don't you, Felicity? I would never hurt you. I forgive you, darling. Please…say you forgive me." He broke down, burying his face against her bed with long, atoning sobs.

She had tolerated his fumbling advances in her room that night in early March, and now he had convinced himself that the Baron had forced himself on her. She looked down at him coldly, but there was no other choice but to go on living with him and allowing him to believe the lie.

Cassie Mahy was right. She was a survivor. It was James' toast, and they had drunk to it that hot summer night the year before. _To survival._

His head was there by her left hand, his face buried in the covers. She lifted her stiffened fingers and began to stroke his hair as his sobs eased.

XXXXX

She was still weak when she was released from the hospital several days later. The Baron never visited – she hadn't expected him to – but he had sent flowers. It was all very appropriate, of course, and he had signed them from "Oberst Baron von Rheingarten" in his formal hand, the way he would have done for Mrs. LaPalotte if she'd had an attack of appendicitis. But Felicity knew better.

He had also sent his car and driver to bring her home. Her arms were still bandaged. She had difficulty bending them at the elbow, and James was there to help her gingerly into the backseat. He chatted happily all the way home, not seeming to notice that she responded monosyllabically.

She felt a sense of dread as the car slid to a halt in front of the house. James hurried around and eased her out of the car, slipping his arm around her to help her up the steps. There was a noise from inside, and she could feel James' grip tighten around her waist as the Baron strode out of the house with Muller and Walker at this side.

He stopped as he saw her there, and she froze. It was the first time she had seen him since he had knelt beside her in the greenhouse. There was small flicker of a relieved smile, meant only for her, and then he gave them a polite nod of the head.

"Mrs. Dorr. I'm glad to see you looking so much better." She gave him a thin smile, and then looked away.

"Ah, Baron. Just the man I was hoping to see!" James said cheerfully.

"Oh?"

"Yes, I wanted to tell you our very good news."

"Good news?" The Baron's eyes flitted between James' and Felicity's, but he was trying to maintain an air of only polite interest.

"James, don't. This isn't the time," she protested quietly, but he slid his arm still tighter. He went on, ignoring her.

"Yes. _Wonderful_ news, actually. It's come rather late in life, but it seems as if God has seen fit to bless us with another child." There was a flicker in the Baron's eyes. A small frown pulled at the corners of his mouth, and he looked over at her. She could feel her cheeks redden; she couldn't bear to look at him. "_In late November_," James added with emphasis. "Dr. LaVallee confirms it."

He'd purposely lied, she knew. Dr. LaVallee had said no such thing. Felicity finally lifted her eyes to the Baron's. He looked back in a moment of stunned disbelief, but then turned to James with a tight smile. "That is wonderful news, indeed, Senator. May I be the first to offer you both congratulations?"

James gave him a triumphant smile in return. "Thank you, Baron," he said with an edge to his voice. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to put Felicity to bed."

With a hand in the small of her back, James ushered her past the Baron. "Why did you do that?" she hissed once inside. "Why did you tell him?"

"What does that man matter to us anymore, Felicity? We're stuck with him here for the duration. There's no way round that. But I wanted him to know he has no hold on us."

She broke free of his grip, but she could feel her arms throb in pain. "It wasn't your news to tell!"

He put a solicitous hand on her shoulder. "You're tired."

"Don't tell me how I feel, James. I'm not a child."

"Dr. LaVallee said you need your rest," he went on.

"I don't want to _rest_," she snapped, but then softened. "I want to feel useful again. Delphine will need my help in the kitchen."

"Please, Felicity, you need to think of the baby now."

She stopped and nodded once. She had spent many waking hours in her hospital bed with nothing else to occupy her thoughts than the baby. It was the same as when she had discovered she was pregnant with Philip. She was too young; it was the worst possible news at the worst possible time, and more than a small part of her hoped she would lose it.

Until the night she told James, and he had reddened and stammered and told her he would give her a fiver to get rid of it. She knew then that she wanted the baby; that she loved it already. She wanted this baby, too, and as impossible as her situation had become, she at least had the knowledge that this child had been conceived in love and passion.

"All right. I'll rest."

He kissed her on the forehead and headed to his study as she went up to her room. She was more tired than she realised, and she drifted off as soon as she hit the pillow. It was some hours later when she woke, and the room was dark. She hadn't meant to sleep this long, and now she felt light-headed and disoriented. She had taken her last dose of pain medication before leaving the hospital and now her arms ached.

The house was still as she struggled out of bed and headed out onto the landing and started down the stairs. She was still stinging from James' smug revelation to the Baron. He couldn't know the baby was his for now, but she hadn't wanted him to find out this way. She owed him more than that.

She hadn't eaten all day, and now she felt shaky and slightly nauseated. She hurried outside and down the path to the garden. It was a cool spring night, and there was a light breeze. She lifted her face to it and took in calming breaths.

He found her there some time later, as she knew he would, and he stood in front of her, looking at her across the distance that had suddenly risen up between them. It was a long moment before he spoke.

"I am sorry that I could not see you in hospital. I wanted to."

"It was best that you didn't." She smiled weakly. "The flowers were beautiful."

He nodded and crossed to her on the bench while another silence grew up. She wanted desperately to tell him.

"If you had died, I think I might have killed him," he said flatly. It wasn't a boast, but a statement of fact.

"Yes. I think you might have." She looked at him with regret. "I'm so sorry about this morning. I didn't want you to find out that way."

"Are you happy?"

"About the baby?" She swallowed hard. For once, she didn't need to lie, and she gave him a tearful smile, part of her hoping that he would see the truth. "Yes."

He dropped his eyes and nodded. When he lifted head back up, he reached out and put a hand on her cheek. She had missed him, missed the touch of his hands on her, missed the sound of his voice, and she could already feel her resolve weakening.

"Are you certain the child is the Senator's?"

"Yes, of course it is," she said without conviction.

"You're lying," he said, but his voice was soft.

"No. It's the truth."

"I don't believe you."

She tried to put her hands on his shoulders, wanting to push him away, but she couldn't. She shivered as he moved his lips to her ear and whispered. "Tell me the truth, Felicity."

"It is the truth."

"Tell me the truth," he repeated, his voice a soft murmur. He ran a gentle hand between them and placed it against the soft curve of her belly.

"_Don't!"_ she said forcefully and rose from the bench. "This is impossible! What if it is yours? What then? Do we run off to Switzerland? Shall I divorce my husband or shall we just expedite things? There are bullets in that luger, aren't there? Why don't we just put him up against one of the orchard trees?" She looked at him breathlessly, but he said nothing. "This is my husband's baby. You must believe that."

He rose then and tried to reach out for her hand. "Felicity…"

"_Don't!_ If you have any feelings for me at all, you'll leave it. _Please,_ Heinrich."

He opened his mouth to speak, but she was already gone up the path and into the house before her resolve shattered completely.

**END CHAPTER ELEVEN**


	12. Chapter 12

**NOTES:** I thought it was time for a relatively angst-free chapter! Thanks to Helvetica Bold for the poem.

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**CHAPTER TWELVE**

It was one of those bittersweet early spring spells on the island that reminded her of England. The April weather was unseasonably bright and warm, promising a summer that would never quite materialise. But for now there was sunshine and cloudless skies.

James had been solicitous and concerned these last few weeks, of course, but she suspected that he knew the truth that his sense of propriety and status kept him from admitting. There were no more visits to her bedroom. She hadn't expected any, and she was relieved each night when her expectations were met. Except for their perfunctory wedding night consummation, James hadn't touched her during her pregnancy with Philip, finding the whole thing slightly distasteful. But she had reveled in the ripe new fullness of her body and found James' lack of attention bewildering and frustrating.

Between her pregnancy and her recovery from her wounds, James treated her like an invalid, and she had Delphine to fuss over her, too, bringing her trays of tea and toast when she woke. Still, she enjoyed the opportunity to lie in bed on these crisp, bright mornings.

If the Baron still stung from the news of her pregnancy, he never showed it. He would pass her on the steps into the house, his eyes dropping to her waist and then up to hers with a hint of a smile. If James suspected the truth, she knew Heinrich did, as well. She missed him; so much of her wanted to tell him, and as her body continued to blossom, she feared it would only become more difficult not to.

James was off at the Senate each dawn on those warm April days. She saw little of him, and somehow, as the new life grew inside her, the overwhelming guilt had begun to lift. She could never have imagined a year earlier that she would come to love this man, but she had. She would never be proud of what had happened, but she had stopped being ashamed.

It was early yet. James had left, but the house was still quiet. The windows were open for the first time that year, and the curtains in her bedroom billowed in as she watched the Baron from her window. He was walling again, standing on the front lawn in his shirtsleeves lifting the stones into place. She felt a pang remembering the previous year and how close she had come to losing Philip. It all seemed a lifetime ago, something that had happened to different people. Perhaps they had been different people.

She stood in front of the open window and slipped the dressing gown from her shoulders, not caring that she might be seen. She crossed to the wardrobe and chose a pale yellow print dress with sprigs of violets and cornflowers, struggling to button it across her newly full breasts and middle.

He was leaning against the wall with his back to the house when she came out with the glass of water. He turned when he heard her approach, reaching up for the glass with an appreciative smile.

"You're walling again," she said, perching herself on the edge of the wall.

"I am undoing the damage your Mr. Brotherson did last year," he said with wry humour. "I am delighted to say that he has absolutely no future as a professional waller."

She smiled back down at him as he set the glass back on the wall and lifted another stone into place. She watched him silently as he worked, one stone and then another. "'Something there is that doesn't love a wall,'" he finally said in a low murmur.

The words were unfamiliar. "What was that?"

"Robert Frost. The American poet. 'Mending Wall.'" He paused for a moment and leaned against the wall, looking up at her. "'And on a day we meet to walk the line/ And set the wall between us once again./ We keep the wall between us as we go.'"

He looked at her meaningfully for a moment and then turned back to the stones as he mopped his damp forehead with the back of his arm.

Her eyes fell over onto the jacket that he had folded over the wall as the light of the sun glinted against the medals pinned to the front. She hated the image of the swastika that had spread like an infestation on the island. On public buildings, cars, pinned to lapels. It was an ancient symbol, she knew, but with its twisted arms, it seemed an ugly perversion of the cross. She shuddered as she ran a finger over it.

"What is this one for? Something terribly brave, I should think. Or loyal service to the Nazi party, perhaps?" she said with quiet edge to her voice.

He bristled visibly. "I am not a Nazi. Until recently, _Wehrmacht_ soldiers were not permitted to hold membership in any political party. And even if I had been permitted, I would not have aligned myself with the National Socialists," he said with clipped contempt.

"And yet you support Hitler," she began carefully. She could still not reconcile this cultured, educated man with a ruthless invader.

He dropped another stone into place before speaking, and she could sense his rising irritation. "I am a soldier and a German. My loyalty is to my country. Failure to defend her would be dishonourable."

"Dishonourable? Do you think what you're doing is honourable?"

"Yes. I do." He looked up at her, his mouth pinched shut. "How can you fail to understand that when you remain with a man you do not love out of some sense of duty?" He snapped up the glass from the wall and drained the last of the water. "I do not wish to argue today."

She sighed and spoke after a beat. "Nor do I."

"Then come with me." He retrieved his jacket from the wall, and underneath there was a towel. He folded them both over his arm and reached out his other hand for her.

"Where are we going?"

"For a walk."

He wrapped his hands around her waist and eased her down onto the grass, his thumbs lingering for a moment on the soft new rise of her belly. She shivered under his touch and took a step backwards, but he only turned with a gentle smile and offered her his arm.

They walked silently across the stretch of green between the house and the cliffs that overlooked the Channel, the only sound the crying of seagulls and the crash of the waves below. There was a beach at the foot of the cliffs, quiet and remote. She had taken Philip there when he was a boy, but she hadn't been in years. He paused to offer her a hand at the top of the wooden stairs that clung to the side of the rocks and twisted their way to the shore, and she followed him down, slipping her shoes off when she reached the bottom.

There was a log, bleached and stripped by the elements, and she sat on it as they looked out over the water. She'd loved it here years ago, the secluded little beach surrounded on three sides by rocky cliffs, the way it looked across the water to England. At high tide, the sea here was rough and untameable, and at low tide, Philip would squeal with delight as the waves licked gently at his toes. For once, she had understood James' love of his island.

"I'd forgotten about this. Philip always loved it here when he was a boy. He'd run up and down the beach, bringing me gifts of feathers and pebbles." Her voice was soft, and she smiled wistfully at the memory.

"Perhaps you will do that again next spring with another child."

She took in a startled breath. He hadn't mentioned the baby since that day when she had come home from the hospital, and there was a sudden intimacy in his voice.

He walked to the edge of the water and looked out across the waves for a moment before pulling the braces from his shoulders and dropping them to his side with a smile over his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Going for a swim." He continued with the buttons on his shirt. "It must be 75 degrees."

"But it's April! The water will be freezing!"

"So? Good for the circulation!" He tossed his shirt and vest onto the sand with a flourish.

"You're mad."

"Join me."

"Certainly not." She laughed, a light and airy little laugh, as he pulled his boots off and began to unbutton his trousers. It _was_ mad and wonderful, and she felt for a moment like a naughty schoolgirl playing truant. But she wasn't a schoolgirl, she knew as she watched her lover remove the last of his clothes. She was a grown woman, finally awakening after what seemed a very long winter.

He stood naked on the beach in front of her. She missed the feel of his body, his broad chest, those long legs entwined with her own. He turned with a smile as he dove into the water, disappearing under the waves, and then coming up again with a yell.

She laughed and tried to blot out the flash of guilt that bubbled to the surface. She was loved and admired, sitting here on a lonely beach with her lover while their child grew inside her. It was a perfect, but like this flawless weather, she knew it would not last.

He came up out of the water, smoothing his wet hair from his forehead, and dripping a trail of water up the beach.

"How was it?" she asked drolly as he ran the towel across his chest.

"Why don't you try it for yourself?" He smiled at her and retrieved his trousers.

"No!"

He pulled his vest over his head with a shrug, but then he darted across the sand to her before she could react and had her around the legs, lifting her up and carrying her in front of him as she wrapped her arms around his neck.There was an equal share of protest and playful laughter as he carried her down the beach toward the water's edge.

"You wouldn't dare!" she shrieked, and he laughed, spinning her around and then easing her down onto the sand with only the edge of the retreating waves pulling at her ankles. "You're awful," she said in mock hurt.

He took a step back from her and watched her there for a moment, his hands tucked into his pockets. The breeze had loosened her hair, and it fell in waves against her shoulders. The smile faded from his face, but his eyes were soft.

The mood had shifted; her heart skittered in anticipation of what she knew was coming.

"There was an evening," he began, a gentle lilt to his voice, "In the gardener's cottage. You had fallen asleep in front of the fire, and the light gave your hair the colour of spun gold. I thought then that you could never look more lovely." He tilted his head and let his eyes drift across her. "I was wrong."

She could feel the tears begin to well in her eyes. His gaze dropped to her middle. The damp material of her dress clung to her skin and accentuated her gentle curve as the skirt billowed out behind her in the breeze. She lifted a hand and placed it there, willing him to give voice to what she sensed he already knew. He lifted her eyes back to hers.

"I do not think," he said, soft and understanding, "that we shall have to wait until November for our child to be born."

"No," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, tears welling in her eyes. "Of course not." She could feel herself give way, the release of strain and emotion. Her knees buckled, and she started to sink onto the sand, but he was there, crossing the sand to her, and lifting her up in his arms to meet his kiss.

There was a rush of soft voices, tearful laughter mingling with whispered words. She felt the sand underneath her, soft and yielding. The buttons on her dress had come undone, leaving a space for him to kiss the hollow between her rounded breasts and back up to her mouth. He tasted of sweat and the sea, and every nerve hummed as he moved inside her, his mouth still on hers. He rocked gently above her; his touch was soft and light, building without urgency until there was a shared cry of release that no one but them was there to hear.

She lay there in his arms afterward.

"Tell me," she said softly, "about your house in Germany."

He took a breath in and traced lines on her back as if he were drawing a map. "There is an orchard, and beyond the orchard is the vineyard. And then the abbey ruin is in the corner of the estate. An old Carthusian abbey. Just a wall of the church and part of the cloisters." He paused and stroked at her hair. "Perhaps one day I will to show it to you."

She shivered. It had been an unspoken rule between them not to speak of the future. She pulled herself up to sitting. "We should go."

"Yes. Of course." He rose, helping her to her feet, and he pulled his jacket on. They walked back up the sand, her fingers hooked into the back of her shoes, and she paused to brush her feet off before slipping them on and heading up the stairs.

The daily business of war had begun again as they walked back up across the grass toward _Sous les Chenes. _His driver had arrived. He was leaning against the car but snapped to attention when he saw the Baron approaching. Some landsers crossed their path, saluting the _oberst_ but otherwise eyeing them indifferently. Just the commandant chatting politely with the lady of the manor. But then they crossed behind a tree and were obscured from view. He pulled her against it, and she wrapped her arms around him for a fleeting kiss before they emerged and continued their stroll back toward the house.

He slid inside the car, and she could hear it pull away as she went inside, the feel of his salty kiss still stinging against her lips.

**END CHAPTER TWELVE**


	13. Chapter 13

When she found him, he was in his study, where he had buried himself under a stack of papers he had brought home from the Senate. He had a tray of sandwiches in with him rather than pull himself away from his work to dine at the table. She watched him there through the crack in the door for a moment as he sat scribbling notes in the margins, his face bright and alive, and absently holding the corner of a limp sandwich in the other hand. He was happy. This was where he belonged.

She made a small noise, and he looked up to see her pushing the door open. He smiled and folded his hands on top of his papers. "Felicity," he said in not unpleasant surprise.

She took an awkward step inside. "I'm sorry. I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"No, no. Not at all." He raised a hand to gesture her inside, and she gave him a thin smile and stepped in. This was James' corner of the house, and she'd never felt comfortable here in the best of times, least of all tonight.

"You've been on the beach," he said, and she looked up, startled.

"What's that?"

"Here." He pointed to his own face. "You got some sun."

She self-consciously raised her hands to her cheeks, which had flushed pink at the memory of her morning on the beach with the Baron. "Yes, I expect I did," she muttered blandly.

"Never mind. I'm sure the fresh air did you a world of good," he said with a fond smile as he began to rummage through his papers again.

She smiled back at him weakly and took a few more halting steps inside as he continued to work. Her eyes fell on the picture at the corner of his desk, and she picked it up. It was taken on their wedding day, and she still clutched her bedraggled bouquet in one hand. She had worn an ill-fitting suit she borrowed from her flatmate when she found she could no longer button any of her own skirts. She had been as far along with Philip as she was now. In the picture, they both stood stiffly side-by-side, her arm looped through the crook of his elbow. Their lips were stretched into tight smiles, but their eyes were empty.

"I remember this," she said softly, her fingers running along the frame. He looked up at her, his mouth pulled down into a frown, but said nothing. She set the picture back in the corner of the desk, and he watched her cross restlessly to the window behind the desk. "I remember when I told you about Philip. You couldn't speak for a moment, but then you reached into your pocket and tried to press that fiver into my hand."

"For God's sake, Felicity," he interrupted in a pained, weary voice.

"No, it's all right, James. I don't care about any of that. Because I knew at that moment how much I wanted the baby." She lowered herself into the chair opposite his. "Oh, I thought I was so brave and so modern, but I could never have done it on my own. So, you see, there was only one thing to do. To marry you. And I will never, ever regret that."

Her eyes were gentle, and he smiled nostalgically over at her. But then her face darkened, and her voice was sad and heavy. "But I should have left years ago"

"Felicity…"

"We don't make each other happy, James, and we never have," she said quickly and without accusation.

He leaned forward in his seat, elbows on knees. "But we _could_, Felicity. We _could._ We've been given a second chance, don't you see?"

"No, James." She quickly batted away a tear that had started down her cheek. "I'm sorry."

He sat back in his chair and laced his fingers together. His features had suddenly shifted. They were cold and hard. "And what do you intend to do? Set up housekeeping with the Baron?"

"This has nothing to do with the Baron," she said with quiet firmness. "Our marriage was over before the island fell."

"You'll lose Philip forever."

"Don't say that. It isn't true. He'll understand," she said in an unsteady voice, although she was far from sure that he would.

"What do you think he'll say when he finds out his mother has spent the war as the German commandant's whore? The man who carried out orders to deport the island's Jews? The man who ordered the execution of his friend?"

"The man who saved his life," she snapped back. "And yours."

"He saved us because he wanted you in his bed! And it worked a charm, didn't it?" He had risen to his feet and was standing over her with a look of disgust on his face.

"Stop it! Listen to yourself!" She rose up next to him and put conciliatory hands on his shoulders. He pulled away from her, but she took a step in towards him with a pleading voice. "Please. Let me go. I will go on for all the world like a dutiful wife. I know how much this island and your status on it mean to you, and I won't do anything to jeopardise that. But while we are here, we will live separate lives."

"How can you ask me to stand by and watch while you continue to fornicate with the Baron under my own roof?" His face was scarlet with anger, but she steeled herself, speaking in measured tones.

"Because you don't care about me, James. Not really." Her eyes fell down to the papers on his desk. They were in a jumble, but she knew it all made sense to him. The colour-coded files, the scribbled notes. _This_ is what he cared about above anything. He followed her gaze down to the desk, and his shoulders dropped in comprehension.

She took a deep breath to calm the tears in her voice. "While the war is still on, we will live here together at _Sous les Chenes_. I won't see the Baron, if that's what it takes. We can be civil, even cordial to one another. But when the war ends, I will leave. You can divorce me…for adultery, for desertion. I don't care. But please, James. Let me go."

His features shifted again, softened. He took a staggering step backwards, and then turned to lean against the bookshelf with resignation. After a moment, he spoke. "I did love you, Felicity."

She reached out for him, as if to place a comforting hand on his shoulder, but then she let them her arms fall helplessly to her side. "I know. And I loved you," she said simply. "But we loved other things more."

She stood for a moment in the thick silence and then moved past him, her footsteps echoing against the hardwood floors. The chill of his voice cut into her and pulled her back as she reached the doorway. "I'll let you go, Felicity. On one condition."

She turned to him with a startled breath. He was facing her with his arms folded across his chest, the corner of his mouth twisted up into a sneer. "What is it?"

"The war will end in, what? Four, five years? You can go. I'll even give you a settlement you'll find quite attractive, I'm sure. But our child stays here. On the island. You will have no further contact with him."

Her mouth fell open, and on reflex, she placed a protective hand against her middle. "Certainly not."

"I can make this quite difficult for you, Felicity."

She looked at him with stunned eyes. She had always suspected that this side of James existed, and she'd seen flashes of it before. The day before her failed evacuation, he had torn into her bedroom, his face twisted in rage, and tried to shred her clothes with his bare hands. But then as soon as it came on, it had subsided, and he had asked for forgiveness in his stiff, formal way. She knew there would be no apology now.

She blinked back fresh tears. "A child's place is with his mother, James. Surely you understand that."

"You're not a fit mother. It belongs here."

"No. I won't leave my child." She hurried from the room before he could say anything more, her head spinning in panic and disbelief, but he was fast on her heels as she headed for the door.

"I won't let you take him, Felicity."

"Stop me," she said with what little bravery she could muster. She had no idea where she was going, only that she needed to get away from James, and she trembled with fear as she headed outside. But then he had his hand on her arm, and he yanked her back hard. She stumbled from the doorway as he pulled her around to face him.

"I won't let you do it. Felicity." Both of his hands were on her, and her heart thudded with fear.

"You're hurting me," she said in a small voice.

"You won't take that child," he said, his thumbs digging deeper into her upper arms.

"You'll have no choice," she spat and then tried to struggle away from him, but he pulled her back and pushed her hard against a table in the foyer. A porcelain figurine toppled over onto its side.

"No choice?" He frowned and gave her a shake. "Why?"

"Just let me go, James." She pushed herself against him, but his hands had slipped down and tightened around her wrists. Her watchband cut into her skin, leaving a thin, red line.

"Why, Felicity?"

"Because…"

"_Why_, Felicity?"

"Because," she took a hitching breath in; her lip trembled. "Because it's not your child!"

There was a tiny, airless moment when all was still. His face dropped, his whole body changed. And then his mouth twisted and his eyes hardened again. He took her shoulders in his hands again and shook her, hard. A lamp toppled from the table, falling with a crash to the floor. She could feel the sharp stab of the drawer pulls in the small of her back, and she cried out in pain.

"You _lied_ to me! You _lied_ to me!" With each word he shook her body against the table. His hands traveled up her arms, pressing down on her shoulders and inching toward her neck. She lifted her hands and fearfully tried to pry his fingers away.

"James, please! You're hurting me!" But he seemed not to hear her. His hands bore down on her, pushing her back, and she cried out as she fell hard against the sharp corner of the table.

And then there was someone there, pulling James away, and he was propelled backwards from her. It was the Baron, standing between them, posed in a fighter's stance, and James looked up, stunned and suddenly fearful. Before she could speak, the Baron had raised his fist, bringing it down hard on James' chin, and he staggered back hard against the table on the other side of the foyer.

"Heinrich, no! Please, don't!"

But it was too late. As James pulled himself back to his feet, the Baron looked on not with rage or hatred, but with icy coolness. James eyes were wide, and his mouth formed a round "O," but he curled his hands into fists and squared his shoulders.

Still, it was hopeless, she knew in a breathless moment. The Baron easily dodged James' impotent swing and then he brought down a blow that sent James reeling further inside the house. He tripped and stumbled against the grandfather clock that stood at the foot of the stairs, but managed to right himself. He turned again towards the Baron with fists raised, but he never had a chance. Heinrich was there, delivering a series of relentless blows that sent him crumpling to the floor.

"Please, don't! Don't do this!" She ran in after them as the Baron pulled James back to his feet by the lapels of his jacket and hit him hard across the chin. A spray of blood shot from James' nose and mouth as his head jerked backwards from the blow. Dizzied, James began to buckle at the knees, but there was another blow to his middle. He dropped to the floor with a sickening thud.

The Baron leaned down with his hands gripped around James' collar as if to pull him back up again, but Felicity stepped between them. "That's enough! Heinrich, you'll kill him," she said with a sob, putting her hands on the front of the Baron's jacket. "Please, don't!"

His chest rose and fell with silent anger, but he stood with his hands at his side. Felicity turned to James. He had pulled himself to his hands and knees, grunting breathlessly and spitting out mouthfuls of blood. "Are you hurt, James?"

He said nothing, but struggled to his feet. His lip was split, and a gush of blood from his nose ran down his chin and onto his white shirt. He looked at them in wordless contempt for a moment, standing with his hands on his knees as his breathing evened. Then he wiped his mouth with his forearm, leaving a bloody imprint there, and staggered from the house.

The Baron turned to her when he had gone and caught her injured wrist in his hand. "Did you hurt you? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. It's nothing." She winced as he ran a finger along the inside of her wrist. "He knows everything." The Baron looked at her in understanding and then leaned in to wrap his arms around her. She pushed him away gently. "No, please. I just need to be alone right now."

He looked at her, and there was a flicker of hurt in his eyes, but he nodded and she turned to head wearily up the stairs.

She sat in her bedroom for some time, and it was well past dark when she heard slow, heavy footsteps on the stairs. They stopped at the landing and headed down toward her room. She sat on the edge of the bed, her hands nervously gripping the covers beside her, and she looked up expectantly when James entered her bedroom. One eye had swollen shut, and there was an angry red wound on his mouth. She waited for him to speak.

"I'm finished with you. You can take your things, your clothes, but I want you out of my house. You and your bastard child can live in one of the cottages. I don't really give a damn." He spoke sadly but calmly. She had expected this, but still tears sprang to her eyes. She nodded and rose from the bed to retrieve her case from the wardrobe. He stood there in silence as she opened it on her bed and began to fold her things. "You'll get nothing from me. You know that. Not now and not after the war. You won't get a shilling."

"He won't let us starve," she said quietly. She felt a sudden stab of shame. Had she truly become the commandant's whore now?

James snorted with cruel humour. "Do you really believe that? And what do you think Berlin will do when they find he's fathered a child by a Senator's wife? And then after the war. Even assuming he survives, you can't really believe he'll come for you. May God help you, then, Felicity."

There was a pause while she stood motionlessly, but then she pulled a dress from the wardrobe and folded it across her arm. She could sense him watching her, but after a long moment there was the sound of his footsteps retreating to his own bedroom. A single sob caught in her throat. She took a steadying breath and then tucked the dress inside the suitcase, closing it with a hard, resolute snap.

**END CHAPTER THIRTEEN**


	14. Chapter 14

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

A dull, grey rain limped in from the channel and settled over the island that night, taking with it the brief glimpse of summer. The day that had begun so promisingly with a stolen moment on the beach and the knowledge that Felicity was carrying his child had ended in uncertainty.

He had always been able to push his personal trials and tragedies to the darkest corner of his mind and focus on the business of war. He was an officer of the _Deutsche Wehrmacht_; it was what he did, and he was very, very good at his job.

He had been trained not to act on emotion, to respond with only the force necessary to end a threat, and he had done so with an icy calm that morning with the Senator. He was in control; he had to be, and he had lost it only once since coming to the island. He had stood in the garden earlier that day and leaned a broken and bloodied Eugene LaSalle against a tree, casting his eyes down until the bullets were fired and the young LaSalle's lifeless body crumpled to the ground. He had looked quickly away again as Walker pumped a last bullet into the boy's head and his body had jerked grotesquely in a cruel parody of life.

Later that evening, he had stalked through the party, ignoring the attentions of other girls in the hope that Felicity would come. She didn't, of course, and so he had gone to find her. He was drunk, angry, and he could no longer ignore these unnerving feelings toward the Senator's wife. The evening had all ended badly, as he knew it would, but he could do nothing to stop it.

He had kept a tight rein since that time, even that morning as he came into the house and saw them there in the foyer, the Senator's hands wrapped around her wrists, but he had felt something well to the surface as he took the Senator by the lapels, and he wondered what might have happened if Felicity had not stepped between them.

He took the stairs into _Sous les Chenes_ two at a time as the car came to a halt. He called her name as he entered, no longer caring who heard, but the words echoed in the eerie stillness. He called her name again and pushed doors open onto empty rooms, but there was nothing, and he felt a small flicker of fear.

_Felicity…the baby…_

He finally reached the Senator's study and pushed the door open. James sat there, slumped over the desk in the darkened room, his face obscured by the shadows. He held a whiskey glass in his hand, and there was a near-empty bottle on the table in front of him.

"Where is she?"

"Get out of here," James slurred. "Get out of my house."

"Do not forget that you reside in this house at my pleasure, Senator. Now, where is your wife?"

James only gave a half-hearted shrug and raised the glass to his lips. Heinrich crossed the floor to him with two long strides and lifted him up by the lapels of his jacket as he had done that morning. James flinched in fear, and the Baron could see his black eye and split lip in the last light that streamed through the rain-streaked windows. "What have you done with her? If you have hurt her…"

"I haven't done anything," he said in a drunken whine as the Baron dropped him back into his chair. "I'm through with her. Take her, for all I care. I wouldn't touch her now that you've…_fouled_ her."

The Baron bristled, and fought the urge to pull him to his feet again but then he spoke in a tight, controlled voice. "You are angry and drunk, Senator, but I suggest you carefully consider your words before referring to your wife in such terms in my presence." James slumped over his desk and reached out for his desk. "Now tell me where has she gone."

"I don't know. The cottages, I imagine." James knocked back the rest of the liquid in his glass. "You've taken my island, my house. You had to take my wife, as well?"

It was difficult to muster any sympathy for a man who cared more about a few square miles of land than he did his wife, but the Baron almost felt sorry for this decent but weak man wallowing drunk in his sloppy English sentimentality. He didn't love her. How could he love her when he didn't really know the first thing about her? "I cannot take something away from you, Senator, that was never really yours."

"You're welcome to her, then. I tried to make her happy. Offered to marry her when she got herself in trouble, gave her everything I had. But it was never good enough. Always…unsatisfied," he said with a sneer.

"_Unsatisfied_," The Baron turned the word over and then allowed himself a small smile of triumph. "I am afraid that is a quality in Felicity I have not seen."

The Senator looked at him for a moment, blinking his eyes, but then his mouth opened and his brows drew down in comprehension as the Baron swept out of the room and from the house to go to her.

She was awakened by the soft stroke of fingers against her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open, and there was moment of disorientation before the reality flooded back into her. She had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion in the chair in the gardener's cottage, and he was here, kneeling next to her on the floor with his hand resting against her cheek. He had come.

"Are you all right? Are you hurt?" he asked in a soft rush.

"I'm fine."

"The baby…"

"We're all right. A nasty bruise on the hip, that's all." He nodded with relief, and she caught his hand in hers.

He lifted her to her feet, and she could feel him guiding her into the bedroom. She was too drained and numb to protest as he lifted her dress over her head and folded the blanket around her.

"Will you stay?" she asked in a small, drowsy, childlike murmur.

"Yes. I'lll stay," he said. She knew he meant for the night. Until the baby was born. Until the war was over, even. But he could promise no further than that. It would have to be enough.

She could feel her lids growing heavier, and the last thing she remembered of the day was the feeling of his lips pressed against her forehead.

XXXXXXXXXX

Their lives began to approach something resembling normality over the next weeks. She settled into a routine, tidying the cottage and tending the small garden outside. He would come to her in the evenings and stay there with her until morning. The cottage had had a sort of tumble-down charm when it was only a place for secret meetings, but there was work to be done before it was suitable for her or the child. He helped when he could, but some nights he wouldn't come at all, and she knew something was happening. Some new offensive, and his absence was always a brutal reminder that they stood on opposite sides of a bitter divide.

It was strange, looking up at the house from this vantage point, a bit like looking down the wrong end of a telescope. She expected to miss it more, _Sous les Chenes_, her greenhouse, but those things only had painful associations for her now.

Cassie Mahy came one afternoon some weeks later, bringing with her a box of maternity things she had scrounged together. The fabric was beginning to strain and pucker on own her dresses, so she was grateful for the clothes, but she was surprised, too, how much she missed the company of other women. Felicity invited her to stay for tea, and Cassie agreed after a hesitation. They sat in awkward silence interrupted occasionally by observations on the weather, no one quite willing to bring up the subject of the elephant in the room.

Afterwards, there were pleasant if strained goodbyes and Mrs. Mahy was halfway out the door when Felicity finally spoke. "What are they saying…what do they know? In town."

Mrs. Mahy's eyebrows lifted in surprise, but then she shrugged. "They know you've left _Sous les Chenes. _Angelique says he never mentions you at the Senate. It's as if you no longer exist. No one knows for certain that the baby isn't your husband's," Cassie's eyes dropped to the curve of her belly, already too full for a late November birth. "But it's only a matter of time."

Felicity gave a thin, joyless smile. "Well, I won't expect the villagers with torches and pitchforks just yet, then." Cassie said nothing but turned to go. Felicity called after her. "You don't approve. Do you?"

Cassie turned back and cocked her head thoughtfully. A soft look of reflection passed over her face, and she paused before speaking. "Just before the Germans came, Urban and I had a terrible row. About what I don't remember. It hardly seems important now. I do remember he was waffling about something, they way he always did. It was maddening, and I accused him of being too indecisive. He said my problem was that I was the opposite. 'How easy it must be for you,' he said, 'when you have the whole world divided into black and white.'" Cassie smiled a bittersweet smile. "I think I see things rather more in shades of grey these days, Mrs. Dorr, don't you?"

She let the smile linger on her lips for a moment, and Felicity responded in kind before Mrs. Mahy turned up the path with a small, sympathetic nod of her head.

The summer slipped away as autumn and the birth of their child approached. Minor repairs had been made to the cottage, and the last of the season's flowers were blooming. She cried soft tears when she returned from a walk one day to find that the Baron had had her bed sent down from the house. It wasn't quite a rose covered cottage in the Cotswolds, but they were _happy_, if such a thing could be believed, and there was an unexpected freedom in waking each morning with his arms still wrapped around her.

Despite the circumstances, she was content in her pregnancy and the new fullness of her body. Each sensation was heightened, all of her appetites increased. She felt vibrant, alive, and she and Heinrich found new and creative ways to make love as their child blossomed in her.

It was one afternoon in September that she stood leaning against the doorway. A sudden chill had settled in, but the sun was still bright as it began to dip below the horizon. He was chopping wood outside for the fireplace. They would be needing it soon, and she watched as he raised the axe over his head and brought it down against the wood. He tossed the split logs onto the pile and wiped his damp forehead with his shirtsleeve.

"What is it?" he asked with a curious smile as he caught her gaze.

"Nothing."

"You should not be on your feet," he chided gently, and picked up the axe again.

"You're right." She gave him a voluptuous smile, and then she crossed to him, wrapping her arms around him.

There was a long, slow kiss as his hands travelled across her appreciatively, and she knew he found her beautiful not just in spite of the new life she carried in inside of her, but because of it. She broke the connection and led him inside by the hand, through the kitchen and into the bedroom, where she pushed his braces off his shoulders and worked at the buttons of his shirt while his fingers did the same for her.

Clothes were peeled slowly away. Dress, boots, shoes, undergarments, until there was nothing left. Fingers and mouths brushed against faces, exposed skin. He turned her gently toward the mirror, and stood behind her as she took in the reflection, his hands following the line of her curve and resting against her full breasts. She, who had felt so undesired in her last pregnancy, was admired and loved.

She turned back to him then, finding his mouth with hers and they moved in unison toward the bed. He eased her down onto her side where they lay like two spoons in a drawer, his body curved perfectly around hers. He ran a hand between her knees, parting her legs slightly, and she moved one leg forward. His fingers skimmed up her thigh and teased at her sensitive folds, eliciting a soft, approving moan.

He met her moan with his own as he slipped into her from behind and moved gently inside her as his hands cupped her breasts. She reached around and curled her fingers into his thighs, urging him forward as he pushed deeper inside her and then out again in long, slow strokes.

They lay that way, building in intensity until she spoke. "I want…to see you."

He pulled away from her and lifted her up gently until they sat facing each other. He pulled her in towards him, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. He brushed a damp strand of hair from her face before moving his hands under her thighs and guiding her onto his arousal. There was another low, luxurious moan as she leaned back with her hands on the bed, and he supported her with his fingers laced against the small of her back.

Her eyes were moist as they locked onto his and she slid down onto his length. She moved slowly, tenderly at first, rocking her hips against his, controlling the angle and depth of penetration until they found a rhythm together, growing, building.

When she was close, she threw her head back, eyes closed. "Oh, God…yes…please," she whispered, low and throaty. He cried out and pushed inside her with last thrust as she exploded around him.

They held each other that way for a moment, breathless, sweaty, spent. Then he helped her back onto the bed, where they faced each other, his arms pulling her in as close as he could.

She bit her lip before speaking. "Do you regret any of this? Me, the baby?"

"No," he said and stroked her hair. "Do you?"

She turned away from him and nestled herself inside the curve of his body like a pearl. He slipped his arm around her, and she could already feel herself drifting toward sleep. "No. No regrets."

**END CHAPTER FOURTEEN**


	15. Chapter 15

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

She remembered this feeling from the last days before Philip was born. For the past week, she'd been too tired to do much of anything, but since the previous morning, she'd had a sudden burst of energy. She'd made the most of it, dusting, tidying the cottage that had been her home for the last six months. She'd even spent the better part of the morning pulling weeds in the front garden, until a muscle spasm in her lower abdomen convinced her there were more comfortable and sedentary uses of her time.

So, she turned her attention to finishing the little baby quilt she'd started from pieces of material salvaged from old dresses she knew she would never wear again. Airy, floral cottons in light pastels for Sunday morning or afternoon teas at the club. Those days were gone.

She had been putting off these last finishing stitches for days, knowing that when it was completed, she would have to make that walk back up the hill to _Sous les Chenes._ She hadn't seen James in weeks, and then only at a distance. Perhaps time had dulled his hurt, she thought as she headed back up to the house. But there were still moments in the morning as she watched Heinrich dress, buttoning his jacket, straightening medals won in the defense of an indefensible regime that she still felt a shame that washed over her like a cold tide.

If there were moments, however fleeting, when she couldn't forgive herself, how could she expect James to?

The walk up the hill back to _Sous les Chenes _was longer than she remembered. Her swollen feet throbbed and there was still a small twinge of pain that ran across her middle each time she took a step, but her frequent stops were as much to delay the inevitable as to catch her breath.

The greenhouse came into view. The shattered glass walls were still boarded up, and her arms ached at the memory. She could hear noises from inside, and when she craned her neck around the corner, James was there, indiscriminately hacking away at a bush with a pair of garden shears.

"You never were much of a green thumb," she said gently.

He turned to her, startled. "Felicity…" he said, and caught unaware that way, there was an almost involuntary flash of warmth in his eyes. But then his gaze was pulled down to the swell of her belly, and his face clouded over, pinched mouth, hard eyes. He tossed the shears onto the table. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to ask you for a favour, and then I'll go." She chanced a step inside the greenhouse. "I came to ask you for Philip's cradle."

"No." He turned away quickly and moved to the corner of the greenhouse where he threw the shears onto a pile of tools. She followed after him. There were stinging tears in her eyes, but she blinked hard, determined to remain calm.

"James…"

"How can you even think of putting his child in the same cradle as Philip?"

"Because this is Philip's brother or sister, James. And it's not as if the cradle is a family heirloom. It was someone's idea of a wedding present, for God's sake."

"No. You can't have it," he said with finality and busied himself grabbing up gardener's tools. He was all sharp, angry gestures. "I suppose you'll go know and ask the Baron and he'll have one his thugs come and tear up the house looking for it."

"I'm not going to ask the Baron. I'm asking _you_. Because it's the right thing to do. Can't we please be civil to one another?"

"No," he repeated. "How can you? Have you forgotten who he is? Have you forgotten what he did to Eugene LaSalle?"

"No." She could still see the ugly stump in the orchard out of the corner of her eye. "I haven't forgotten."

"Do you know what he did yesterday? Freddie Maurice – do you remember him? A few years younger than Philip. He was caught writing graffiti in town. 'Jerry go home.' Ridiculous, puerile stuff. He was a danger to no one, but they threw him in jail. Beat him, tortured him, trying to get him to give up members of some imaginary schoolboy resistance! He's _sixteen years_ _old_, Felicity! They almost crippled him."

"That wasn't the Baron," she said in a rough whisper. "That was Flach."

"Flach, von Rheingarten…there's no difference." He charged toward her, and she took a reflexive step backward. A surge of fear ran through her. "Listen to yourself."

"No! I won't be lectured! Not by you." She held one hand up between them and placed another instinctive, protective hand over her curve. Her voice was steady, but her whole body trembled. "I know who he is. I know _what_ he is. And I choose to be with him. But do you really think I never feel any guilt or shame about what I've done? That I don't wonder if it wouldn't have been better for all of us if I'd got on that first evacuation boat to England last year? Do you really think me that shallow?" He looked back at her, eyes narrow slits. "If you think that, James, then it's true…you never really knew the first thing about me."

He stared back at her, ashen, eyes flashing, but he said nothing as she slipped by him and hurried as fast as she could through the orchard and back down the hill, one arm supporting the curve of her belly.

She'd gone down without stopping, and it was easier heading down the hill, but she was breathless and tearful when she reached the cottage. Her hands still shook as she lit the kettle and leaned against the kitchen stink until she could move again.

It was some hours later there was a knock at the door. She opened it to find Muller there, and he gave her a smile and polite nod of the head. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Dorr."

She returned a small smile. He'd always treated with the same courtesy and respect, but there was a slight awkwardness between them since the fateful morning he'd found her and the Baron there at the cottage.

"I'm sorry, Capt. Muller…The Baron isn't here."

He cleared his throat. "I'm not here for the Baron, Mrs. Dorr. I came to give you this."

He gestured with his arm, and she stepped outside. Philip's cradle was there on the ground by the door. Muller picked it up, and she let him move past her inside the cottage, where he set it on the rug by the fireplace. She crossed and knelt beside it, her fingers running across the smooth wood, evoking sweet, tearful memories. Philip was suddenly there, cooing, reaching up for her finger. She laughed and batted away a tear.

"The Baron…I didn't say anything to him. How did he…?" Her voice trailed off.

"It wasn't the Baron, Mrs. Dorr. It was the Senator." Felicity's chin snapped up in surprise, her mouth fell open. Muller went on. "I saw it on the porch and asked him what it was for. He told me it was for you, so…I said I would deliver it."

It was a moment before she could speak. "Thank him for me, will you, Capt. Muller?"

"I will," he said simply.

She smiled down at the empty cradle. Philip's tiny face receded, replaced by another. Pink cheeks, blonde curls, toothless grin.

"And thank you." She rose, then, but as she stood there was sharp pain in her abdomen. She doubled over, a hand going to her middle.

"Mrs. Dorr, are you all right?" The captain asked in concern.

She nodded her head rapidly and let out a breath. The pain had subsided, but there was a warm, liquid surge from between her legs. "Yes," she hissed, but then let out a peal of nervous laughter. "I'm fine…I just…"

"What is it?" he asked. "Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing wrong. But I think the baby is coming."

_That must be it_, she thought. She felt cramps all day, and her waters had just broken, hadn't they?

No. This wasn't like before. She could feel sweat beads pop out on her forehead, and she reached out to steady herself on the back of the kitchen chair. She looked up, and Muller's eyes had widened with fear.

"Mrs. Dorr…" he said in alarm.

She looked down to see where a small crimson circle bloomed on the front of her skirt. "Oh, God…" She could feel her knees give way, and then Muller's hands were on her elbows, guiding her to the chair by the fire. "Oh, God," she said again, drawing back stained fingers. "Send for Dr. LaVallee, please…Mrs. Mahy…anyone. And the Baron. _Please. _Find him."

Muller nodded rapidly in understanding. "Will you be all right by yourself, Mrs. Dorr?" he said, still hovering over her.

"I don't know. But please…_go_!"

He nodded at her and backed out of the cottage. Through the window, she could see him running up the hill back toward _Sous les Chenes._

She sat there fighting off a panic, her heart pounding out of her chest, willing herself not to cry as minutes ticked by. _You need to stay calm, Felicity. Stay calm._

Fearful thoughts raced through her head. Was this some kind of divine punishment? No. Her God was a loving, forgiving God. She couldn't lose this child, not now. Not after all that she'd been through. It was all right; it had to be all right.

Her fingers gently ran across the curve of her belly, and she sang to her unborn child, a lullaby in a soft, quaver of a voice. But then a contraction ripped through her, and she bit her lip against the pain.

She staggered into the bedroom, supporting herself on the furniture, inching herself along the walls, until she collapsed in bed. The bleeding appeared to have stopped, or slowed at least, but the sharp pain had returned, lingering even between her searing contractions. "Please. Let it be all right," she whispered up prayerfully.

It was some time later that she could hear voices outside the cottage. A man's voice, accented. It was Muller, speaking in low, frantic tones. Then the door burst open, and she could hear the higher pitch of Cassie Mahy's tight, controlled voice giving sharp orders to the captain.

Felicity let out a sob as the woman came into the bedroom and sat on the edge of her bed. Mrs. Mahy pressed a hand against her pale, damp cheek. "It's all right, Mrs. Dorr. You need to calm down. It's all right," she said, but the forced evenness in her voice told Felicity otherwise. "How far apart are your contractions?"

"I don't know…I don't know…" she said feverishly, dry-mouthed. "Where's Dr. LaVallee? Why isn't he here? The Baron…where's the Baron?"

Before answering, Mrs. Mahy turned to the doorway, where Muller still hovered, looking on in wide-eyed fear. "I'll need clean linens, Capt. Muller. Can you do that?" she asked in an exaggerated calm. "And you'll need to find the Baron."

Muller nodded and turned to go as Felicity reached up and grasped Cassie's wrist.

"Where's Dr. LaVallee?" she panted.

"There's been an accident on the north end of the island. Tractor overturned, pinned Joe Albert underneath. Dr. LaVallee's gone up. He'll need to amputate, most likely."

"He's not coming?"

Cassie gave her what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "I asked Sheldon Leveque to go fetch him. He'll be here as soon as he can. I'll stay here with you until he comes."

Mrs. Mahy rose and moved briskly around the room, pulling a plain nightgown from the wardrobe, yanking the top sheet from the bed. She leaned down without batting an eye and pulled Felicity's shoes from her feet.

"But…you're not a nursery nurse…will it be all right?"

"Well," Cassie began tartly. "I delivered a French prostitute's baby once. Does that count?"

Cassie pulled her to sitting position, and Felicity couldn't help but manage a small, weak smile as the other woman pulled the clean nightgown over her head.

XXXXXXX

There were voices. Hushed, urgent. She opened her eyes and could just make out the outline of faceless, black shapes, moving across the room as if in a fever dream.

"Heinrich…" she said, barely audible, but then one of the figures moved toward her, kneeling beside the bed.

"He's not here, Mrs. Dorr. Capt. Muller's gone to find him. But the doctor's here." Cassie pushed Felicity's sweat-drenched hair from her damp forehead. "You need to listen to me now, Mrs. Dorr. You need to do just what the doctor says. Do you understand me?"

Felicity nodded, but already Cassie seemed very far away, as if speaking from another room. "Something's wrong," she panted, her breathing shallow and laboured. "I can feel it. Something's wrong…"

"It's all right, everything is going to be fine."

"No. Something's wrong…" She tried to pull herself to sitting, but Cassie gently placed her hands on Felicity's shoulders.

"Please, Mrs. Dorr…" It was the doctor, examining her at the other end of the bed. "I need you to push. Can you do that?"

"I can't…I can't…"

"You need to try. Do you understand?"

She bore down once as Cassie slipped her arms around her to support her weight, but it was futile. She exhaled and cried exhausted tears, as collapsed against Cassie Mahy. "I can't…"

"You _must_," Mrs. Mahy said firmly, and Felicity bore down again with all the force her spent body could muster.

And then she could feel the baby slip away from her. All was quiet. The room went still.

"What is it? What's happened?" Felicity said in one breath.

Dr. Lavallee looked up at Mrs. Mahy. His brows were drawn down, and he gave a rapid shake of the head.

"He's not crying…why isn't he crying?" She was vaguely aware of their voices speaking in those same urgent tones, but she felt herself moving farther and farther off.

"Mrs. Dorr? _Mrs. Dorr!_" It was Cassie Mahy, wrapping her fingers around Felicity's wrist.

"My baby…" It was the last thing she said before she drifted away.

XXXXX

She awoke sometime later, drained, sore, aching.

He was there, sitting in a chair that had been drawn to the side of the bed. His jacket had been removed, and he sat there in his shirtsleeves, arms folded across his chest, face clouded over.

"You're here…" she croaked, and she could feel a fresh shower of tears spring from her eyes.

He snapped up at the sound of her voice and leaned forward. His fingers brushed across her damp cheeks. "I'm here. It's all right."

His voice was soft with concern, and she smiled up at him.

But then there was the dawning realisation. The room. A devastating stillness. There was nothing.

"The baby…" she said, trying to pull herself up to her elbows. "Where's the baby?"

"Ssssh," he said. "You need to rest."

"Where's the baby? What's happened? Oh, God…" She could feel her body give way again, and she reached out, gripping his arms in her hands.

And then there was a small cry from the corner of the room. She stopped and strained to hear as the Baron rose from the chair and crossed to where the cradle had been moved to the foot of the bed.

He gingerly reached down and then crossed to Felicity's bed, slipping the perfect bundle into her waiting arms. She cried again, a shower of relieved, joyful tears as she opened the blanket. Ten tiny toes, ten tiny fingers, perfect rosebud mouth.

"It is a girl," he said, easing himself on the bed next to her. "We have a daughter."

"A girl." She smiled through tears. _A girl_. It was right, perfect.

Felicity leaned down and dropped a kiss onto their daughter's soft, downy curls. The baby fussed and mewled for a moment before settling back down into the blanket.

They sat there for a long while, watching her, as the baby drifted away into a perfect, newborn sleep.

**END CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

**A/N: **I promise that Felicity and the baby are all right. Mother and child are resting comfortably!


	16. Chapter 16

**NOTES: **Moving ever closer to the end! I hope to have this wrapped up in another few chapters or so. Thanks to funkygibbon for playing "spot the typos" and to all of you for your comments. They're positively yummy.

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**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

They talked in quiet whispers as the baby nuzzled in against Felicity's breast and the Baron stroked the tiny pink foot that peeped out from under the blanket. They would call her Charlotte Elizabeth. She had her mother's fine, pale hair and her father's striking silvery-blue eyes. She was beautiful and adored.

After Charlotte fell asleep at her mother's breast, her father lifted her and placed her gently back in her cradle, and Felicity loved them both with a physical ache, knowing now how fleeting this all could be.

She remembered the early days when she and James would lie in bed with Philip nestled between them, and they would talk excitedly of first steps and school outings and holidays. She and Heinrich could not share these things, and they lived their lives only in increments of twenty-four hours, never knowing what the next day would hold.

Today, the day of their daughter's birth, she wouldn't ask him where he had been and why Muller hadn't been able to find him. If she noticed the brief flicker of pain in his eyes as he set the baby in her cradle, she ignored it. _Today_ would be perfect.

The first weeks went by in a blur, one sleepless night fading into the next day. He came when he could. At the end of the day he would enter the cottage with a weariness that seemed to melt away when he saw her and Charlotte nestled in against the fire. He was always loving and attentive with both of them, but there was something troubled underneath the surface, she could just make it out when he thought she wasn't looking. She wanted to ask him, but she was afraid what his answer might be.

At first he came every day. After dinner, they would sit and talk by the fire as he held Charlotte, and the baby looked so tiny and peaceful curled up against her father's broad chest. And then one evening, it was long past dark and he still hadn't come. Feeling the anger and hurt that came with exhaustion, she finally gave up waiting and went to bed. Later she was awakened by the sound of the cottage door softly opening and closing. She lay still in bed, feigning sleep, as he came into the room. Boots dropped to the floor one by one, and then he slipped into bed next to her, wrapping his arms around her and kissing the back of her neck. She didn't speak, but lay there silently in his arms until she could sense he had finally dropped off into a troubled sleep.

She awoke the next morning to an empty bed. He was gone already, and she cursed herself for not having spoken to him.

Charlotte was colicky and cried for most of that next day. Felicity jiggled the baby in her arms and walked the floor in aimless circles trying to comfort her. Philip had been this way, but she couldn't remember feeling this drained and helpless. She was barely out of her teens when he was born, and twenty years had passed. She was forty now, and caring for an infant almost entirely on her own had taken its toll.

Felicity had nursed her, bathed her, walked the floor with her, but she was inconsolable. Finally, after twelve straight hours of almost non-stop crying, Charlotte finally fell asleep through sheer exhaustion. Felicity felt herself give way as she lowered her spent little body into the cradle, and she sobbed as fatigue and anxiety took over.

She collapsed in the armchair, too weary to build a fire, and warmed herself with her fingers wrapped around a mug of Horlicks. He came in some time later after she had begun to drift off.

"Where have you been?" she said, hoping it wouldn't sound accusatory, but it did.

He removed his hat and hung his jacket on the back of the kitchen chair before speaking. "I was at the Senate."

"At two o'clock in the morning?" she said snappishly, but then she bit her lip. She hated this, feeling like some shrill housewife.

"I am not a farmer or a shopkeeper, Felicity. I am soldier in wartime." He crossed heavily from the kitchen and collapsed into the chair opposite hers.

She searched his face and waited a moment before speaking in a small, child-like voice. "Are you tired of us?"

His frowned, and his mouth opened. He sprung to his feet and crossed to her, kneeling on the floor beside her and taking her face in his hands. "How can you think that? I have risked _everything_…" His voice broke off, and he started again after a beat, softer now. "I have risked everything for you and for Charlotte, and I would do it again. Without hesitation. You must never forget that, Felicity. Promise me you won't forget that."

She looked down at him, eyes widened at the sudden force of his words. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to do this."

He stroked her cheek. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

"I've missed you," she said, and reached up to lay her hand against his.

He answered her by covering her face and her mouth with kisses and pulling her to her feet. She wrapped her arms around him, feeling his warmth against her for the first time in weeks as he led her into the bedroom.

They made love for the first time since Charlotte was born. Sensing her anxiety, he let her set the pace. He undressed her slowly and eased her back onto the bed, running his admiring hands across her curves. Her body was changed and softened by new maternity, but she, too, was beautiful and adored.

He kept his eyes on hers as he entered her gently. She drew in a little startled breath, and he hesitated. But then she nodded, and he began to glide softly above her until they climaxed together. Afterwards, he held her with whispered words and tender gestures.

It was perfect, and everything was all right again. For a time.

Cassie Mahy came one afternoon to check up on her, and Felicity was so desperate for conversation that she begged her to stay for a cup of tea. They sat at the table while Mrs. Mahy drank and Felicity held the baby on her lap.

"What are they saying? In town," Felicity finally asked.

"Your husband was very discreet, Mrs. Dorr. He never said anything against you. But if there were ever any doubt about your baby's parentage, there isn't any longer," she said matter-of-factly.

There was a beat as Felicity sipped at her tea. "I see."

"Things have been rather difficult, I'm afraid," Cassie went on. "Food shortages, vandalism. The Bailiff is no more than a figurehead now, and your husband is a very popular, respected man. And you…" Mrs. Mahy shrugged. There was no need to go on.

"I was never an islander, was I?"

"No."

Felicity nodded in understanding. There was no bitterness or animosity. It was simply the way things had turned out, and she had learned not to regret what was.

"I wanted to take Charlotte into town. To be baptised," Felicity said with a feeling of dwindling hope.

Cassie shook her head slowly and set her cup back in the saucer as Felicity instinctively curled the baby tighter against her. "I wouldn't."

And so her sense of isolation grew. She was closed in by the four walls of the cottage, and she saw no one, not even on her walks with Charlotte. She ranged farther and farther each day, risking incursions into the north end of the orchard just for a glimpse of another human being.

Then there was another night as autumn faded and a long winter loomed. The sky was dark and heavy with storm clouds and as night fell, it began to rain hard on the roof of the cottage. She was rinsing the dishes at the sink when she saw him pass the window and push the front door open.

He stood for a moment, the rain sheeting off his greatcoat, and she opened her mouth to let out a light, teasing laugh, but then the laugh caught in her throat.

He crossed the floor and drew her into his arms, hugging her tight against his chest and pressing his mouth hard against the top of her head. She could feel his heart racing underneath her fingertips. She pressed her hands against the front of his jacket and pushed away from him, looking up at him with anxious eyes. "What is it? What's wrong? You're frightening me."

He walked past her and paced in a circle, and then turned to her, running a hand down his face. "This past August, the British invaded Iran. All Germans living or working there were deported to internment camps." There was a beat while he took in a long breath, and she looked back at him without comprehension. "I have been told there will be reprisals. Here in the islands. Twenty people for every German citizen deported."

He paused to let the meaning of his words sink in.

"Reprisals? I don't understand…"

He took in another breath, and in that moment she could see the anguish in his eyes. "You will be deported and sent to a camp."

"No…" She shook her head numbly as he went on.

"All men who served as officers in the last war. Non-native islanders, English born. All will be sent to camps on the orders of the Fuhrer himself."

She looked over at their daughter, who slept blissfully unaware in her cradle. "But surely they won't…Charlotte was born here. I can't leave my baby. They wouldn't…"

She searched his face for signs of a softening, but there were none. His jaw muscles were bunched, and his mouth was set into a pale, thin line. She watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

"English born parents have the choice of taking their native children with them to camps or leaving them behind."

"_No!_ I won't!" Sudden tears flooded her eyes. "How could I leave her behind? What would happen to her?"

"She is the daughter of a German officer," he said in a pained voice. "I imagine she would be sent to be raised by a German family."

"I could…I could take her with me. We'll be all right." Her voice had risen to a near-hysterical peak. "We'll be all right…won't we?"

Heinrich laid both his hands on her shoulders and looked her hard in the eye. "If you go to a camp, Felicity, you will not come out. Neither one of you."

"Then can't you…can't you stop it? You won't let them take us, will you? Can't you stop it?"

She looked up at him hopefully. The silence was awful. "You cannot stay here, Felicity. You and the baby are in danger, and I will not be able to protect you for much longer."

"Why? What does that mean?" she said in a rush, but he only shook his head. She collapsed against him. "I won't leave. And I won't give Charlotte up."

His arms folded around her and stroked her head. "You won't. I won't let it happen."

She looked up at him questioningly, blinking back tears. "But you said…"

"I won't let them send you to a camp," he said firmly and took her hands in his. "That is why you must leave the island. _Now._"

XXXXXXXXXXXX

**A/N: **The deportation of non-native islanders took place as described, but in September 1942 rather late autumn 1941. I adjusted the chronology to drive along the narrative.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: **I had originally planned to wrap this up at 18 chapters, but I think I'm going to have to finish it up with several more short chapter rather than two more long ones. Life intervenes and all that! I hope that doesn't disrupt the flow of the tale too much! Thanks to funkygibbon and Lucida Bright for the help!

XXXXXXXXXXXX

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

"Leave the island? I don't…" She looked up at him, shaking her head slowly, as if she hadn't quite heard what he'd said. "And go where?"

He still held her hands in his. "Back to England. You and Charlotte will be safe."

"But….how? I _couldn't!_" She laughed aloud, a strained, frightened laugh. "No. It's not possible."

"You must, Felicity. It's only a matter of time before you are deported to a camp, and I won't be able to stop it when it happens." He was speaking urgently, and for the first time, Felicity thought she could see fear in the Baron's eyes.

She let her hands slide up his jacket and around his neck. His eyes were soft, but there was a resolute set to his jaw. The inevitability was crushing. "If I leave now, I might never see you again."

"If you leave now, we will at least have a chance. After the war. If you and Charlotte go to a camp, we have almost none, Felicity." There was a harsh, frightening edge to his voice, and she had a sudden vision of herself, keening on the ground of some squalid internment camp as she held Charlotte's limp, lifeless body in her arms.

She took a step away from him with a deep breath and wiped the tears from her eyes with the heels of her hand. She nodded, as if accepting her fate. When she spoke, it was with a resigned steadiness. "How much time do we have?"

"Not long. There is a boat tomorrow…"

Her heart sank. Tomorrow. Too soon. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," he repeated and went on in a calm, steely voice. "Berlin has granted permission for two islanders to go to England with the Red Cross for medical treatment they could only receive there. One of the passengers was meant to be Mary Hubert. Do you know her?"

The name was familiar, and Felicity searched her memory. "Yes. A little girl. She was on the prayer list at church."

"Mary Hubert died last week, just after she was approved for passage." There was a pause. His eyes drifted over to where their daughter slept in her cradle. "Charlotte will go in her place."

"But Mary Hubert…she was almost two years old! No one will mistake a newborn for a two year old!"

He shook his head and raised his hand to calm her. "They won't look that carefully at the papers."

"How can you be sure?"

"_Because we have no other choice, Felicity!"_ She took a step back from the force of his words, blinking her eyes in surprise. He turned from her and paced in a small, restless circle until his voice was calm. "Listen to me. The boat leaves tomorrow afternoon at half past twelve. You will be travelling as a Red Cross nurse. The boat will leave here and go to France – "

"_France?"_

"—And then the patients and their nurses will board a British Red Cross ship to England. You and Charlotte will be safe then."

She crossed slowly and sank into one of the fireside chairs. She felt numb and cold, as if her whole body had suddenly been shot through with ice water. He followed and knelt down next to her, taking her hand in his. He waited for her to speak. "What if someone recognises me at the harbour?"

"They won't. They'll be too eager to get rid of you. There is a party tomorrow night at the 50/50 Club, and the men at the harbour will be released as soon as your boat leaves."

"Papers…Red Cross uniform…"

"You will have them before you leave."

She looked away, feeling the hot sting of tears return to her eyes. "But…_what if_ I'm caught?"

"You won't be."

"You can't say that! Philip and Eugene LaSalle didn't think they'd be caught either! _What if_ I'm caught?"

He said nothing, and she knew in the silence that he would not be able to save her. They would both be doomed. He reached up and cupped his hand against her damp cheek. She caught it, and dropped a kiss in his palm.

She would count these next few hours in bittersweet milestones. The last time she kissed him, the last time they made love, the last time she saw him.

He rose, pulling her to her feet, where she clung to him for a long moment, listening to the even beat of his heart. Then, he lifted her chin up between his thumb and index finger and dropped the faintest whisper of a kiss on her lips. She responded by pulling him in closer, her hand against the back of his head. _The last time_…

As the storm raged around them, they made love. Gently, slowly, not wanting it to end. Afterwards, they lay in each other arm's listening to the howl of the wind. She fought sleep, knowing that morning, and with it, their parting, would come too soon.

Sleep overtook her, and some time later, she was awakened by the sounds of Charlotte fussing. She sat up and wiped the sleep from her eyes, ready for the early hours feeding, but the crying was growing closer. When she blinked herself into awareness, Heinrich was crossing to the bed with Charlotte in his arms. He laid her against her mother's breast and stroked her pale, downy curls as Felicity nursed her.

With their daughter nestled between them, they stayed awake for what remained of the night, curled around each other in a heavy silence. Finally, morning came.

"It's time," he said as the first sliver of light shone in through the curtain. She clung to him for a few moments longer, but then he slipped away from her and rose from the bed. She watched as he pulled his uniform back on, and the tears burned hot in her eyes.

They moved together into the next room and stood there by the door. "I will come back later this morning with your papers and your uniform. Remember – it is a day like any other. Don't do anything to draw attention."

She nodded, and he kissed her quickly before heading out the door of the cottage.

She was a bundle of nerves that morning. She fed Charlotte, dressed, but her eyes kept flitting to the clock, and barely thirty minutes had passed since the Baron left.

Her thoughts fell on _Sous les Chenes._ She'd left almost everything behind when James had sent her away. Dresses, books. They meant nothing. But there were other things, pictures of Philip, precious things that she couldn't bear to leave. James would be at the Senate all day, and a brief appearance at the house probably wouldn't draw much attention with the landsers. She would go.

She slipped on a coat and headed up to the hill with Charlotte bundled against her. The house was still when she entered. A young soldier came down the steps and her heart pounded for a moment, but he nodded at her lazily and went on his way.

Charlotte was asleep on her shoulder now, and she crept silently up the stairs. Her room was still and airless and just as she had left it months earlier. Draped across the bed there was even a dress she had meant to take but had decided against. She set Charlotte down to sleep against the pillows and crossed to the dressing table.

There was a picture of herself and Philip from when he was three. He was perched on the end of her knee, smiling out at the camera as the sun shone off his curls. She'd been happy then. Her eyes flitted around the room. There were moments, even here, where she'd known happiness, and she had expected to feel the pull of nostalgia when she returned here, but all she felt now was strangely empty. It was as if all of this – her days as _chatelaine_ – was a story she had heard once. It had happened to someone else, but not her.

She quickly opened the back of the picture frame and slid the photograph out, tucking it inside the pocket of her raincoat.

Her eye fell on the jewel case on her dressing table. She hadn't taken any of it to the cottage. What did she need with it there? But she might again. She had cash and property of her own in England, but there could officials or guards along the way to be bought off with the glint of gold. She opened the case and lifted out several necklaces and dropped them into her coat pockets.

There were diamond earrings that had been a wedding gift from her mother, a choker worn by her grandmother. Underneath it was a pearl necklace that James' mother had given to her. It would go to.

She turned quickly and scooped Charlotte in her arms. The baby whimpered once or twice but settled back in against her mother's shoulder as she hurried down the stairs. It was mid-morning now. Heinrich would be back soon with her papers. She would head out into the daylight, leaving _Sous les Chenes_ without looking back.

She was two steps from the bottom landing when she saw him.

"Felicity!"

She froze. It was James, coming out of his study with a stack of papers in his hand.

"James…"

"What are you doing here? What were you doing upstairs?" He was surprised, it occurred to her, but not angry. Then his eyes fell on the bulges of her pockets. "What do you have there?"

"Nothing." She backed helplessly away, Charlotte held tight against her. He covered the ground between them quickly and let the papers drop to the floor.

"Yes, you have. You've stolen something." He was angry now, she saw. He thrust her hand into her pockets and withdrew a handful of gold chains.

"I didn't steal anything, James! They're _mine! _"

His face was ashen. He had backed her against the wall, and with the baby in her arms, she could not fend him off. He stuck his hand into her other pocket as she tried to turn away from him.

"Not this. This was my mother's necklace. They'll go to Philip when he has a daughter. You lost the right to these things when you took the Baron into your bed."

"Then take it!" she spat. "But the other things are _mine_! From _my_ family!"

He seemed not to hear but rummaged through her pockets with one hand pinning her to the wall. "What else have you stolen? Money? And why now?"

"James, please! You're hurting me!"

"What are you up to, Felicity?" He raised his fist, the chains dripping from it, and waved it in her face. "You've _stolen_ these from me. _Why?_"

The force of his voice woke the baby, and she let out a piercing cry. Felicity curled a fearful hand around Charlotte's head. She looked up at James and watched as the truth dawned on him. His face changed; he knew.

"Who has stolen what, Senator?"

They both turned to the sound of the voice. It was Walker coming in from outside. His voice was menacing yet cool and detached. It was the voice of someone who enjoyed cruelty for its own sake.

Felicity cut her eyes back over to James and looked at him imploringly. There was a heart-stopping moment, but then James slowly lowered his hand and dropped the contents back into her pocket.

"No one's stolen anything, Lt. Walker."

Walker took a step closer and waggled his finger at Felicity's bulging pockets. "What is that? What do you have there, Mrs. Dorr? Have you taken something?"

She looked at James and searched his face, her heart rattling with fear.

"It was a misunderstanding," James said tersely and gave Walker a thin smile. "My wife has come to collect some things belonging to her."

Walker stood for a moment, his cold eyes flitting back and forth between them. The silence was awful, but then his mouth curled up into a sinister smile. "Perhaps you should consider locking up your valuables, Senator."

He strode past them into another room, and Felicity's shoulders sank with relief. She stood there for a moment in the foyer of _Sous les Chenes_. Twenty years, and it had all come to this. He looked down at her, his face a mix of competing emotions: regret, contempt, affection. They had been happy here, for a time, and she would always hold that memory dear. But the time had long since past. There was nothing left to say.

"Thank you," she croaked.

"Good luck." His words were sincere, but there was already a distance in his voice. He gathered up the papers and took a step back so she could pass. She hurried by, the contents of her pockets jangling as she did, and out into the sunlight.

But she _would _look back, she knew, and she paused as she reached the door, looking back at _Sous les Chenes_ for the last time. He was still standing there, a slight trace of a smile on his worn face. She smiled back, for just a moment, and then she was gone.

The Baron was at the cottage waiting for her when she returned. He was pacing in front of the fireplace when she entered.

"Quickly. We haven't much time." He gestured to a brown-paper parcel on the kitchen table. "Papers. Charlotte's and yours. There is also a nurse's dress."

He took Charlotte from her arms, and she tore the paper open. There were some documents on top and underneath a familiar blue nurse's uniform with the Red Cross badge on it. She quickly pulled off her other dress and slipped the nurse's dress over her head. It was too big, and she felt like a child wearing an older sister's dress, poorly altered, but it would have to do. She slipped her coat back over it and knotted the belt.

"There is a lorry in front of the house leaving for town in ten minutes. Tell the driver you need a lift. Have him drop you nearby, but not at the harbour. Nothing to arouse suspicion." She nodded, and he went on in urgent tones. "The boat to France will already be there. When you get to France, there will be a Red Cross boat waiting to take you to England. You cannot miss that boat. Do you understand?"

She nodded again, panic beginning to mount. There were too many things that could go wrong, too many variables. The weather, the tides. She bit at the inside of her cheek to keep from crying. He smiled, but there was a flicker of distant pain in his eyes. "This time tomorrow you will be safe in England. Both of you."

He kissed his daughter's forehead and slipped her back into her mother's arms.

"Come with me," she said suddenly. "We'll go to England together. You could surrender."

"No." He shook his head.

"Why not? I could…I could visit you. Couldn't I? You'd be well treated. The war won't last forever. Why not?"

"_No,_ Felicity," he said, his voice a heavy weight. "You know I cannot."

She broke down then, and buried her face in his chest. "I don't want to lose you," she sobbed.

"You won't. You _won't_. We will see each other again. When the war is over." He lifted one of her hands in his and kissed the fingertips. "Believe it, Felicity. Believe it."

Her tears stopped for a moment, the words she had once said to him coming back to her. _Believe it…believe it._

His face was warm and open and hopeful. This was but a temporary parting. They would meet again, the three of them, a family. They _would_. He believed it, she knew. And so would she.

They kissed for a last time, and she tried to burn the feel of his lips against hers into her memory. It would have to last her until the end of this war, whenever that would be. Soon.

He finally broke the connection with gentle hands against her shoulders. "Go." It was all he said in a broken whisper.

She turned to go, hurrying up the hill, her papers clutched in one hand. She couldn't turn to look at him, knowing that if she did, she would not be able to leave him. But she knew with just as much certainty that he watched her, standing there in the doorway of their cottage, as she reached the top of the hill and the waiting lorry, and even after it pulled away from the house and wound its way through the woods and down to the harbour.

**END CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**


	18. Chapter 18

**NOTES:** Here it is! The penultimate chapter of "The Velvet Dark." One more chapter to go after this. The final chapter is almost 3/4s of the way finished, so you won't have to wait too long for it. I know this chapter may seem very grim, but that just makes a happy ending all the more sweet, right? Just keep saying to yourself…things are always darkest before dawn!

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**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

The lorry finally jerked to a halt by the harbour after a bone-jangling ride from _Sous les Chenes._ She sat in the back under the canopy and tried to nurse Charlotte one last time before the trip to France, but the driver managed to find every rock and pothole along the way.

There was no one on the street when she eased herself out of the back of the lorry. She hurried down the hill toward the harbour, and she could feel her throat close with fear. She had nearly died here the summer before last while the German bombers screamed overhead. Some months later she had stood here and cried tears for her son as he was taken away to prison. There was nothing remotely comforting about this place, even as she caught sight of the boat that would take her and Charlotte to safety.

It wasn't until the landser at the top of the dock shuffled lazily towards her and stuck out his hand that she realised she was still gripping her papers. Her hands were damp with anxiety, and the edges of the documents were puckered and warped. She opened up the documents for inspection. Charlotte's was on top, and she passed it to the indifferent landser while her eyes dropped to the one underneath. _Name: Solange Ouellette_. She was taking the place of a French nurse. She cursed inwardly and summoned up her dormant schoolgirl French.

Her eyes darted up and down the quay while he scanned the papers. Surely someone would know her. The documents meant for two other people would fool no one, would they? She tried to suppress the sick feeling rising in the back of her throat, but then the landser passed her the papers and nodded his head toward the waiting ferry.

"_Merci,_" she muttered, and hurried down the dock and into the boat. There was another nurse there attending to a man on a stretcher. He appeared to be unconscious, and the nurse sat beside him, timing his pulse with her wristwatch.

"Hello," the nurse said evenly as she looked up from her patient.

"_Bonjour,_" Felicity responded after a beat.

The nurse raised an eyebrow. "Ah. You're French." She looked back down at the patient with a sigh.

There was another landser, rifle slung over his shoulder, and a uniformed man who appeared to be the captain of the boat. The landser took her papers and returned them after a perfunctory glance. So that was it. It was done. She shivered in uneasy anticipation. It was almost half past twelve, and they would be gone soon. She and Charlotte would be safe. She allowed herself a watery smile as she kissed her sleeping daughter.

But then minutes ticked by, and they were still tied to the dock. Half past twelve. One o'clock. Half past one. The more time they spent here in the harbour, the more chance she had of being found out. And what if she didn't make the boat in France? What then? It wasn't safe here.

"Excuse me." The other nurse, a prim dark-haired young woman, rose and spoke to the captain. "It's half one. Why haven't we left yet?"

The captain looked down at her with an amused half-smile. "There's a storm. I can't leave until I know which way it is headed."

Felicity's heart sank as she turned and looked over her shoulder to see the dark clouds rolling across the Channel.

"But if this man misses the boat to England, he'll die."

The captain shrugged. "If this boat turns over in a storm, we'll _all_ die."

And so they waited. Minutes dragged by. She paced in circles bouncing Charlotte in front of her as the baby began to fret again with hunger. Felicity's breasts were full and aching, but there was no privacy, nowhere to nurse without giving herself away.

"Can't you shut that brat up?" the landser muttered as Charlotte's howls grew more insistent.

Felicity turned away and cried a brief shower of frustrated tears. "It's all right," she whispered. "It's all right."

Then she heard the captain and the landser exchange words in German. The captain rocked his head back in forth as if considering something, and then he snapped orders at the young landser. Felicity watched hopefully as the landser climbed out of the boat and unlooped the rope from the dock.

They were leaving after all. The boat's engine started up with a roar as he climbed back on, and Felicity's tears turned to tears of relief.

But then from the corner of her eye, she could see it. Something moving down toward them. There was another noise of a motor, almost swallowed up by the boat's engine. She turned and saw a motorcycle winding its way down the road to the dock.

Walker.

She gasped and turned away quickly. He knew. She had been found out. Her mind flew back to the pained look on Heinrich's face when she had asked the question. _What if I'm caught? _

"It's all right," she repeated through tears, as if to calm herself. She peered over her shoulder again. Walker had got off the motorcycle and was walking down toward the dock. He signaled to the landser for something, and the young man passed him the passenger list. She watched in mounting horror as he looked down at the papers and back up again at the boat.

Her heart pounded. Some confusion, an inconsistency. He had found something. She could hear Walker call out in German. He was walking closer, briskly, one hand raised, waving toward the captain.

But he couldn't be heard over the sound of the engines and the boat pushed back from the dock. She watched until Walker's hand dropped down again limply to his side, and he turned and headed back to his motorcycle.

"_Thank God,_" she whispered under her breath and pushed away a tear. "_Thank God._"

She was aware that the nurse was standing next to her then, draping a blanket around her shoulders, and Felicity looked at her in surprise. The woman's lips were pressed into a line, and her eyes dropped quickly down to Felicity's breasts and back up, as if to signal something. Felicity glanced down to see that two round, dark spots were leaking across the front of her dress. "Oh, God!" she said spontaneously and reached up to pull the blanket around her front.

"Your English is very good for a Frenchwoman," the nurse said pointedly. "Perhaps you and your…_patient_…would like some privacy. She might sleep better, then. We can string another blanket up somehow."

"Thank you," Felicity whispered and nodded gratefully as the nurse headed back down into the boat.

She stood on deck for a moment, watching the coast recede away from her. She hadn't been quite prepared for this, this pull of mixed emotions. She had known many things here: loneliness, contentment, fear, but the memory of the love she had known shone above the rest.

Then she was aware of something in the distance. A car, she had thought of it as James' car once, parked on top of a cliff overlooking the harbour beach. Through her veil of tears, she could see figure there, an unmistakable silhouette, standing still, watching the boat pull away.

"Goodbye…" she whispered with one hand extended up to the sky toward him.

She watched him through her veil of tears while the boat continued onward to France until the island was just an inky black line on the horizon.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

It was difficult to believe it was all real in those first few days back in England. There was St. Paul's dome and the hum of Piccadilly. It was the same London she had left. More sombre and draped in blackout curtains, as if the city were in mourning. But it was home. She was really here, back in England. The streets, the noise of traffic. All real. But she would still awaken each night to the sound of Charlotte's crying and then reach out in a panic when she felt the empty space in bed next to her.

Then the memory would flood back into her. He was gone. She was in England. Safe. But without him.

There was a blur of activity to keep her thoughts occupied in those first days. Meetings with solicitors and bankers. She kept a few pieces of jewellery she had brought from the island for Charlotte, but the rest of it she sold. It meant nothing to her now. With the cash and part of the inheritance from her father's estate, she had enough money to buy a place for herself and Charlotte to live. It wasn't quite Cheyne Walk, where she had grown up, but it was a stone's throw away, and the neighbourhood felt familiar and safe.

Her thoughts turned often to Heinrich in quiet moments. She hadn't heard from him. She hadn't expected to, but she missed him with a physical ache.

She thought of the island, too, and she wondered how her absence would be explained. Would there be reprisals? Or would they simply say that in her despair and isolation she had drowned herself and her bastard child?

Several days after she arrived back in England, news came of the attack on Pearl Harbor. The Americans were entering the war, and she said a small prayer of thanks. She knew the fear of the millions of American mothers who would weep for their sons, but perhaps now there would be a quicker end to this awful war.

She and Charlotte settled into a routine in the months that followed. She saw no one, none of the old crowd was likely to greet her with open arms, and in some ways she felt as isolated here in London as she did on the island. But there was a comfort in her anonymity in this vast city. She could have been anyone, just another mother pushing her baby's pram across St. James's Park.

She marked the passage of time in her mind. One more day gone, one day closer to the end of this war. Philip will be free, safe. And Heinrich. _Hinz._

It was a month or so after she had returned from England. She was heading down Oxford Street, head down, coat bundled around her, when she heard a voice call out to her.

"Fliss? Fliss Warren? Is that you?"

She stopped and turned toward the voice to see a tall man standing outside one of the shops. He was about her age and wearing an RAF uniform. His hat was set at a jaunty angle, and his eyes were bright and untroubled. He wasn't a pilot home on leave, he was some sort of War Office attaché, a man who would spend the war behind a desk in Whitehall. It was Ronnie Clarke, the name came back to her suddenly, greyer and stouter than the last time she'd seen him. He and his wife were part of the "smart set" from those mad days in London after the last war. It seemed a lifetime ago.

"Yes. It's me," she said weakly. "Hello, Ronnie."

"I say! Fliss Warren! Look who I've found, Sybill darling!" He looked over his shoulder to where his wife was just coming out of a shop door, laden down with parcels. The years had been very good to Sybill Clarke. She was still slim and attractive with a fur-lined collar drawn up around her ears, and Felicity suddenly felt dowdy in her worn, unfashionable coat and dress.

"Why, Fliss Warren!" Sybill brayed and crossed to Felicity with a kiss on both cheeks. "It _has_ been a long time!"

"Twenty years." Felicity said.

"That long? The last I remember, you were engaged to that fellow. Oh, what was his name, Ronnie? Weren't you at school with him?"

"No, no. Island chap. Duchamps, Darnell…"

"Dorr. James Dorr," Felicity said evenly.

"Dorr! That's it!"

"Yes, I remember now! You eloped! It was all so terribly romantic!" Sybill cooed and clasped Felicity's hand in her own. "Tell me, did he whisk you off to his windswept island after all?"

"Yes. Yes, I suppose he did."

"Back in Blighty, though, eh?" Ronnie said cheerfully.

"Yes. I…managed to evacuate."

Ronnie gave a click of the tongue. "And a good thing, too," he said ominously. "Things have rather gone from bad to worse for your lot, I'm afraid."

Felicity felt a flutter of fear in the pit of her stomach. "Why? What's happened?"

"Food shortages, slave labour. Island men forced to build new runways. We're not getting much intelligence out of there, but it seems the new commandant is quite a hard man."

She felt as if her heart had stopped. The floor seemed to open up beneath her. It was a moment before she could speak. "New commandant?"

"Yes…" Ronnie frowned, surprised by the sudden urgency in her voice.

"What…what happened to the old commandant?"

"Replaced. Recalled by Berlin. Rather sudden," he said with a shrug.

Felicity bit her lip against the tears, fearing the worst. "What have they done with him?"

"Who knows? Sent to the Eastern front, I imagine. There's a fate I wouldn't wish on anyone. Almost feel sorry for the poor sod." Ronnie shook his head slowly. "He's as good as dead."

She was aware that Sybill was speaking to her, reaching into her purse and slipping her card into Felicity's open palm, but she heard no words.

She couldn't remember later how she'd got herself home, whether she'd hailed a cab or stumbled her way down into the underground. Margaret was there, opening the door for her when she finally found her way there.

"Mrs. Dorr! What is it? Whatever's the matter?" The woman looked at her with wide, frightened eyes.

Felicity staggered past her and upstairs into Charlotte's room. She scooped her out of her cot and collapsed in the rocking chair in the darkened room.

_He's as good as dead._

No. It couldn't be. Not after all that had happened. He was alive. _Alive_. _Believe it, Felicity, believe it_.

But then she was powerless to stop the flood of tears. She rocked there for a long while, weeping in the darkness with their daughter curled against her, sleeping peacefully in her arms.

**END CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**


	19. Chapter 19

**NOTES: **You know what I said in the last chapter? About it being the penultimate chapter? And Chapter 19 being the final chapter? Yeah. Well, scratch that.

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**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

**July 1946**

The summer had dropped itself like a heavy blanket over the city that week, and it was as hot as she could remember it being in England. There was a storm overnight she hoped would bring some relief, but in the morning, the air was still thick and oppressive. The day had started badly as she opened the door and stepped out into the stifling heat. She'd got two blocks away before she realised she'd stupidly forgotten her ration book, and by the time she made it home and then back to the shops, she was sticky and wilted from the humidity.

The day continued on its downward slide from there. Most of the fruit looked picked over, and there were no potatoes to be had at any price. The war in Europe had been over for more than a year, but there was still rationing and shortages. Churchill's government had been swept away like so much dirt under the carpet, and Mr. Attlee had been ushered in with plans for nationalization and free lunches for school children. Life moved on, and in some ways, it was as if the war had never happened.

It _had _happened, though, and there was all the reminder she needed in Charlotte. She was beginning to look more and more like her father every day, with her cascade of golden curls and those same striking silvery-blue eyes. The pain of his loss had softened now to a tender bruise, but she still missed him desperately.

The war ended, and word came that Philip was safe and alive. James had made it through, too. But there was nothing from Heinrich. She knew if he were alive, he would come for her, so she waited for some word, some bit of news. She even found herself scanning the faces on the street, thinking she might see him. She was sure she did once, a tall blond man crossing Charing Cross Rd. She called out to him, but he didn't hear and slipped away into the crowd.

She was losing him; she called out again and then darted into the street. A cab screeched to a halt in front of her, and the driver let out a string of profanity as the blond man turned toward her for a moment with unrecognising eyes and disappeared into a bookshop. Her heart sank. Not Heinrich. It wasn't him.

She even turned to Ronnie Clarke for help. She'd called and left messages and finally went to see him, where she was politely but firmly rebuffed as she trailed after him in the lobby of the grand building where he worked.

"I'm sorry, Fliss, but there's nothing more I can do. I'm not sure why you're so eager to find him, anyway," he said with some irritation.

"I told you. He saved my son's life. I wanted to see if he made it through the war…to thank him."

He stopped walking for a moment and turned to her. "Do you know how many people died on the Eastern front? More than twenty-five million. I'm sorry. I can't help you."

He left her standing there alone as he swept past her and up the marble staircase.

There was better news though, when they got word that Philip was to be repatriated. James came to London the day before Philip arrived. There was an awkwardness, but they dined together, chatted amiably. He even asked after Charlotte. It was all very civilised.

Philip arrived home the next day. Five years had passed since she had seen him, and she wasn't quite prepared for the sight of him. He was older, thinner, with dark hollows in his cheeks. She had expected that, but she hadn't quite expected him to have the same haunted look she'd seen on the faces of the other young men who had drifted home from war. The son who had sailed to France a boy had come home someone else.

He didn't speak of his imprisonment, perhaps he never would. He slept for fourteen hours that night, but there were glimpses of his old self the next morning. He was cheerful at breakfast, but she noticed his critical glances at her and James, as if he were searching for signs of something. All he had been told was that Felicity had managed to get off the island to spend the rest of the war in England. He knew nothing of Charlotte or the Baron.

Later that evening, they all dined together, where she and James agreed they would tell Philip their marriage was over. They skirted around the issue, talking of the food and the weather and the latest headlines. Finally, Philip set his fork down at the edge of his plate with a clatter.

"Are you going back to the island, mum?" he blurted suddenly as she nattered on about something, some new song she'd heard on the radio. "Now that the war is over?"

Felicity sighed, and she and James exchanged glances. "No, Phil. I'm not going back."

"But we have no plans for a divorce," James added, as if that made a difference.

Philip's head dropped down. He was silent for a moment and pushed the food around on his plate. "Well I knew…I've suspected for some time." Of course. It can't have escaped his notice that she and James had had separate bedrooms, separate _lives_ for years. "I only want you to be happy, mum."

She smiled weakly and unsnapped her purse. "There's something else…" Her heart raced as she reached in and withdrew a photograph of Charlotte taken only a week before. She slid it across the table to Philip. He picked it up with a frown and then looked up at Felicity and James in incomprehension.

"Who is this?"

She drew in a breath. "She's your sister. Her name is Charlotte."

A small smile pulled at his lips, but then he drew his brows down into a frown. "I don't understand. Why wouldn't you tell me about this before?"

James looked over at Felicity, and even now she could still see the flashes of hurt in his eyes. There was a long pause while the three sat there. Felicity's cheeks burned, and she sat with her hands knitted together in front of her.

James cleared his throat and leaned in. "I am not Charlotte's father."

Philip's head snapped up from the photograph. The color drained from his face, and he looked at his mother in disbelief. "Then who is?"

She knew the words had to come from her. "Baron von Rheingarten."

"No," he said and let out a bitter snort. "Please tell me it isn't true, mum."

"I'm so sorry, Philip. I know you must be angry." She reached for his hand, but he withdrew it.

"How could you? God, how _could_ you?" In the restaurant, necks craned, heads turned.

"Please lower your voice." James hissed, raising a calming hand, but Philip ignored him.

"While I was rotting in a German POW camp, you were _sleeping_ with the man who put me there?"

"It's complicated," she muttered.

"It's not complicated, it's grotesque."

"I will remind you not to speak to your mother that way."

"You're defending her?"

"She is still your mother, Philip. And deserving of your respect."

"My _mother_? My mother would never do anything so…_disgusting_. It's disgusting. You disgust me."

"Philip, please…" she said, but he had risen and returned Felicity's photograph with a contemptuous toss across the table. She pushed her chair back as if to follow, but James put a restraining had on her wrist.

"Let him go, Felicity. Give him time. He'll get over it."

She shook her head and bit her quivering lip. "No. He hates me. I can't say I blame him."

"He doesn't hate you. Or he won't for long. He'll forgive you. He was always more your son than mine," he said wearily and without spite. There was only a slight edge to his voice, softened by a rueful smile, as he spoke again. "Time heals all wounds, Felicity."

It was some hours later after she returned home when she heard the soft knock at her door. She opened it to see Philip standing there. He'd been crying, she knew, and he'd lost his tie somewhere along the way.

"Can I see her?"

She smiled softly. "She's asleep. But yes."

She wrapped her arms around him as he stepped inside. She could feel his body stiffen, but then his shoulders dropped and one hand came up and settled uneasily on her back. It would have to be enough, for now.

He followed her upstairs to Charlotte's room. She pushed open the door, and they hovered in the doorway for a moment. The bedside lamp glowed softly, and he could just make out his sister's sweet, sleeping features. His eyes fell on the picture on the bedside table.

"That's _me_," he said in surprise.

"Yes. She's never met you, but she adores you. Her big brother Philip," she said wistfully. "She wanted so much to come see you yesterday, but…" She stopped. He knew the rest, that night's disastrous revelations. She placed a hand on his arm. "You can go in if you'd like. I'll put the kettle on."

He crept into her room slowly and stood at her bedside. Felicity watched him for a moment, his face a blend of wonder and confusion. Finally, she left them there alone, and it was some time later that he padded softly into the sitting room, ruffling a hand through his hair. He looked all of a sudden like a boy again, with a shock of blond hair hanging in his eyes.

She said nothing but waited for him to speak. He sat across from her and picked up the waiting tea cup.

"I think I always knew. About you. And the Baron," he said slowly and deliberately, choosing his words as he spoke.

"Nothing happened while you were still on the island, Philip," she said shaking her head. "I promise."

"I believe you, mum. But I think I could sense something," he said. "I remember that day I was walling with him, and you came out. It was the three of us there, and I _knew_."

She looked away. Had she really been that transparent? Had her son seen something that she couldn't even admit to herself at the time?

"I can't…I don't want…" he started again, but then shook his head. "He was always kind to me. I liked him. In spite of everything, I _liked_ him, and I think he saw me almost as a son. But I don't know if I want to see him, mum. Not now."

She felt a stab of pain and took a sip of her tea before speaking. "You won't have to. He's dead."

"Oh." His mouth fell open. He sat cradling the cup between his hands for a moment. "I'm sorry."

She nodded, and they drank in the thick silence.

"Does Charlotte know who her father is?"

"She knows he's a soldier who died in the war, but that's all."

"You'll have to tell her someday, mum."

"I know."

There was another silence, not an uncomfortable one.

"Muummmmy…" came the sound of Charlotte's drowsy voice then. She was shuffling downstairs rubbing at her eyes with her dolly bumping down the steps beside her.

Felicity rose to her feet, but Philip stood first. "No. I'll go, mum. If that's all right."

She nodded, too surprised to protest, and Philip walked to the foot of the stairs.

"Hello, Charlotte. I'm Philip," he said softly, bending down with his hands on his knees. She waited for an inevitable howl from Charlotte at the sight of a strange young man, but she sleepily lifted her arms, and her brother scooped her up and carried her back up to her room.

Some time passed, and, curious, she headed upstairs, following the low sound of Philip's voice. He sat cross-legged on the end of Charlotte's bed, reading from a book he held on his lap while his sister listened raptly, her dolly curled under one arm. Felicity ducked around the corner, not wanting to disturb them. She listened to the hush of Philip's voice as he went on about the princess and the dragon, and she stood with her back pressed against the wall outside Charlotte's room, crying soft tears for her two children.

They saw more of each other in the next weeks. With the twenty-year age gap, he was more like a jolly uncle than an older brother, but a firm bond developed between them. He had announced a few days after arriving home that he had no intention of returning to the island, but that he had taken a job in the City. Felicity was overjoyed at finally having both her children so close, but James was quietly devastated. It was Philip's birthright and duty to serve on the Senate, James insisted, perhaps even as Bailiff someday, but Philip was resolute. His father bore his defeat gracefully and retreated to the island.

The next she heard was that the LaPalotte's son-in-law had been killed in the war, leaving their daughter and only child Frances a widow with two small children to raise. She was young, fertile, attractive, and more importantly she loved St. Gregory with the same passion that James did. He hadn't asked for a divorce yet, but she suspected he would, and soon. There would be another Dorr in the Senate yet.

She hadn't seen the need for a divorce; she would never remarry now. But she wouldn't begrudge James his happiness, despite everything that had happened between them. James was right. Time heals all wounds.

Or most of them, anyway.

Sometimes it would hit her when she least expected it, at the sight of a young father carrying his little girl, or a white-haired couple who had been allowed to grow old together.

And then there was days like today, when she was overheated and tired and flustered and a passing bus sped through a puddle and sent a splash of filthy brown water all over her. She cried hot tears of frustration all the way home, not for her ruined dress, but for him and the loss of him, and the fact that he had most likely died not knowing that she and their daughter had made it safely to England.

She was laden down with bags and parcels and couldn't reach her latchkey and ended up hitting the doorbell with her elbow. Margaret opened the door, and her eyes widened as she saw the state Felicity was in, filthy clothes, limp hair, tear-streaked face.

"Mrs. Dorr! Look at you! What's happened?"

"Never mind, Margaret. Can you help me with these things?" She passed Margaret the bags and kicked off her sodden shoes. "I've got to change my clothes and be back to collect Charlotte at school in ten minutes."

"I'll go, Mrs. Dorr. I can take her to the park afterwards."

"No, no, that's all right," she said as she headed up the stairs. The phone rang, and she headed back down with a sigh. "Oh, bother. What is it now?'

She crossed to the phone on the table in the corridor, and there was beat before the voice on the other end spoke. "Fliss? It's Ronnie Clarke." He was speaking very quickly, a low urgency in his voice. "I have some news…about your Baron."

She could feel her throat tighten. News. It couldn't be good. Not after all this time. "Yes?" She wrapped the phone cord around her finger.

There was a pause. "I don't know quite how to tell you this…"

She lifted her hand to her mouth. Tears had begun to well in her eyes. Even after all these years, the pain of his death came flooding back as bright and fresh as ever. At least she would know now.

"I understand…" she managed to croak.

"No, I don't think you do understand, Fliss," he said, and there were traces of disbelief in his voice. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. We've found him. He's alive."

**END CHAPTER NINETEEN**


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: **Well, this is it! The final chapter of "The Velvet Dark." Thank you ALL who have read this, particularly those of you have left such kind and encouraging reviews. I'm glad that so many IAW fans stumbled across this. I'm happy to have brought some resolution for the characters, but I only wish it had been Stephen Mallatratt who had been able to give us all that resolution. I've tried to carry on in the same spirit with affection for the vivid characters he helped create. Thanks so much for hanging in there for the past three months, especially to penfold for everything and funkygibbon for spell-checking, Britpicking, and plot-bouncing. Here we go! Enjoy.

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**CHAPTER TWENTY**

Felicity darted in and out of the crowd at Waterloo Station, her eyes flitting down to her watch for the fifth time in the last minute. She'd waited for him for five years, and somehow the last few days had been the longest and most difficult of all. She had moved around in a haze since the call came, emotions crashing like cymbals inside of her. She had loved him and mourned him, both with an intensity of which she had not thought herself capable, but the future seemed fraught with difficulties. No one had been able to tell her the extent of his injuries. And what if he were perfectly healthy? What then? Had his feelings towards her changed in the intervening years?

She had only Ronnie Clarke's words to cling to.

"He's alive." Ronnie had said those words during the fateful telephone call days earlier as if he himself could scarcely believe it. There was a moment, a split second of sheer joy, a flood of relief that coursed through her body as the words hit her. He was _alive._

Then the room seemed to spin around her, and she could feel the blood rush from her head. If he hadn't contacted her since the end of the war, something had to be terribly wrong, and her thoughts reeled in fear. Her knees buckled. She leaned forward and placed a hand against the telephone table for balance. From the corner of her eye, she could see Margaret looking at her with concern. It was a moment before she could find her tongue, but even then she could only make a small, broken noise as the tears of disbelief sprang to her eyes.

"Fliss? Are you there? I know it's a shock…"

"I'm here," she finally managed to say, and then drew in a long breath before she could speak again. "How…_where_ is he?"

"In hospital. Germany." There was an uncomfortable silence on the other end of the line, and she could sense him struggling for words. "But I really don't know what state he's in."

She could feel a heave of fear at the centre of her. "What's happened? Is he all right?"

"I'm afraid he's had a rather difficult go of it. I don't know much, but…" There was another pause. "He's been in a Soviet prison camp, Felicity."

"Oh, God…" She lifted her free hand to her mouth. She'd heard the terrible stories of things that had happened in the camps. Starvation, torture, disease. In her mind, Heinrich had died a quick death in battle on the Eastern front, and that belief had been a comfort to her in her grief. Now, she feared the worst, and the awful wounds had been opened again. "I want to see him…how do I…can I go to him?"

"You won't have to," Ronnie said, his voice suddenly reassuring again. "We're bringing him here. He's coming to London."

And now the long days of waiting had come to an end. The traffic had been awful, and her cab had inched its way to the station. Minutes ticked by, and her eyes dropped anxiously to her wrist every thirty seconds. Finally, the cab pulled up in front of the station, and she hurried up the stairs. She could hear the tinny voice over the address system announcing the arrival of his train as she reached the track.

Her heart began to race as the train slowed and chugged into the station with a screech of brakes and whistles. The doors opened and passengers hurried past, oblivious to her private turmoil. Bankers, students, and soldiers streamed by, waving to waiting friends, embracing lovers. The platform was empty except for a conductor. Some porters rolled a luggage cart past and eyed her indifferently.

She hurried down the platform, peering into the windows for some sign of him. Something had happened. He wasn't there. She felt the panic begin to rise.

Then she saw movement from the corner of her eye. She turned towards it, and a lone figure stepped from the train. A man in a dark civilian suit, tall, long-legged. The smoke and steam of the train swirled around him and then parted.

She narrowed her eyes. Her heart stopped, she drew in a breath. No, it couldn't be him. This man was thinner, older. Then he raised his head and pushed the hat back from his face. There was a weary smile on his face, and there were lines there that hadn't been there before. But it was him. _Heinrich._

She flew down the platform, a cry caught in her throat. It was him. He was alive. He moved towards her, a few halting steps and opened his arms. She flew into them and wrapped her arms around him with a sob.

"Ssssh. It's all right," he said, his voice a soft caress, but the sound of it after so long only brought more tears.

"I thought you were dead."

"No. I'm alive." He held her at arms' length and brushed the back of his hand down her cheek. He was terribly thin, with hollowed cheeks, and his silvery-blue eyes were dark and haunted. But his was _him_. He smiled at her, and then their lips met again in a long, slow kiss. His arms slid around her again, and they stood in an embrace for a moment.

"I love you," she whispered. She waited for a response, but there was none. Then she was aware that his arms had loosened around her, he was slipping away, down to the ground of the platform.

"_Heinrich_?" she called out in alarm and tried in vain to support his weight. She was aware that Ronnie Clarke had stepped out of the train at some point and was standing discreetly some distance away. He crossed to her, and they knelt beside him on the platform. The Baron's eyes had fluttered shut and sweat beads had popped onto his forehead. "Oh, God, what's happened?"

Ronnie frowned and signaled to two porters. The men helped him to his feet as Ronnie shook his head. "He needs a stretcher. Or a wheelchair at the very least, but he refused. Didn't want you to see him like that."

They crossed through the concourse of the terminal, and heads turned towards the sight of the Baron being helped to the waiting cab in front of the station. The porters eased him inside and Ronnie and Felicity slid in beside him.

He moaned in pain on the ride back to Kensington, hovering somewhere in the space just beyond consciousness. They rode on, Felicity in frightened silence. Ronnie paid the driver and helped her get Heinrich upstairs into the guest room, where she undressed him like a child and eased him into bed.

Ronnie was in the sitting room when she came downstairs. She entered in silence, arms across her chest, trying to compose herself before speaking. "What happened to him? Tell me the truth. I'm not some feeble woman that needs to be shielded."

There was a moment before he went on. "He was wounded on the Eastern front – shot in the abdomen and captured by the Communists. They butchered him in surgery. Barely treated him and did nothing when infection set in. His arm was broken and never set. The war has been over for a year, and still most of the Germans held in Soviet camps have not been repatriated. It's hell on earth, Felicity. Somehow he managed to escape. Crawled his way back to Germany, and I'm not exaggerating by much. We found him in an American hospital near death."

They were silent for a moment as the horror of his words seeped in.

"What will happen to him now?" she asked in a ragged voice.

"When he's stronger, he'll come work for us. We think…" he paused, pressed his lips together for a moment and then went on. "We think he might be of some use to us."

"I don't understand."

"Yesterday's allies are today's enemies, Fliss," he said ominously. "And the other way round. It's not the Germans we need to worry about anymore."

She staggered to a chair and collapsed into it, still trying to comprehend the horror of what he had been through.

"I can't tell you how many times over he should have died," Ronnie went on. "The American doctors didn't give him much hope at first. But his will to live was too strong."

He crossed towards the door and put a comforting hand on her shoulder before leaving. "Take care of him, Fliss."

"I will," she said in the firmest voice she could muster. "Of course I will."

He slipped in and out of consciousness for the next hours. She sat by his bed, fearful that his fever would overtake him. The doctor was summoned, and he told her there was nothing more that could be done for him. They could only wait.

She didn't leave him as the night became day again. She was exhausted and drained and finally Margaret came in with some tea for her. "Why don't you try and get some sleep, Mrs. Dorr?" she said gently. "You're worn out. I can sit with him, if you'd like."

She took the cup and nodded a thanks. "No, it's all right, Margaret. I want to be here in case he wakes."

Margaret gave her a sympathetic smile and left them there. They drifted into night with little change in his condition. The doctor came round again the next day and only shook his head gravely. "We'll know more by morning."

The room was dark; the only light was from the moonlight streaming in from the window. She cried silent tears, prayed, bargained, everything she could think of for this man she loved until sleep finally overtook her.

She was awakened by the bright sound of bird song, and she blinked herself into awareness. She cursed herself for falling asleep and sat upright in her chair, drawing in her breath and turning to him.

He was awake, smiling at her, and she leaned down tearfully, taking his hand in hers. His eyes were clearer and the colour had returned to his cheeks. The danger had passed.

"Good morning," she said with a teary smile. "I've missed you."

He soon drifted back into sleep, but he was past the worst. He was going to be all right. Physically, at least. But there were questions that needed to be asked, and the answers might be painful.

She came into his room with a tray the next morning, and he picked without interest at his food.

"You need to eat," she said, trying not to sound like a nag, but he was weak and painfully thin.

"I'm not hungry. Am I meant to live on toast and porridge?"

He had already begun to complain about the bland diet the doctor had prescribed, but his system couldn't yet handle anything richer. She ignored him and went on after a beat. "Oskar…how is he?"

"He is well." The mention of his son brought a small smile. "When I didn't return from the war, he assumed I was dead and started using the title. He's been living on the estate since the war ended."

She took a deep breath before speaking. "And your wife?"

His face darkened for a moment. "She died in 1942. She was never a strong woman. Manfred's death, Oskar's accident…it was more than she could bear."

"I'm sorry," she said sincerely. He gave a thin smile and nodded. The war had claimed yet another victim, and she had felt a certain kinship with this woman who had worried and mourned for sons.

"And what of our Mr. Brotherson?" His smile widened as he spoke of Philip.

"Mr. Brotherson has abandoned all hopes of a walling career, you'll be happy to know. He works in the City. Engaged to a lovely girl. I expect I'll be a grandmother soon," she said with an arched eyebrow. "Some days I look it, too."

"Never." He reached out for her hand. There was a beat. "And the Senator?"

"He's marrying the Bailiff's widowed daughter. The divorce should be final soon." She expected a reaction, a look of triumph, but there was nothing, only a look of sympathy and understanding. "He could have sued me. God knows I've given him reason. But in the end, he went to some sordid little hotel with a woman he'd never laid eyes on, where they were 'surprised' by a detective hired by the solicitor. All very civilised," she said wryly.

There was a noise from the corridor, and Charlotte's curious little face pressed against the crack in the door. She had been pop-eyed with excitement for days after hearing her soldier daddy had returned home after all. The magical worlds of children aren't bound by such rules, and in the imagination of a little girl not quite five, it seemed the most natural thing in the world. She poked her head in the door as Felicity and Heinrich sat there. It had pained Felicity to keep her away from her father in those first few days, but he was stronger now. It was time.

She signaled her in, and she crawled up onto the bed next to the Baron. She put her small hands on either side of his rough face. "Hullo, Daddy," she said soberly, matter-of-factly. "I knew you'd come back." He reached up and put his hands on top of hers, and she tilted her chin up curiously. "Why are you crying? Why is he crying, Mummy?"

Felicity smoothed her daughter's unruly gold curls and sniffed back her own tears. "Because he's very, very happy to see you, darling."

Charlotte wrinkled her nose, but then let out a giggle. "But that's silly! You don't cry when you're happy, you _laugh_ when you're happy!"

And so they smiled through tears, and Charlotte let out a sunny, satisfied peal of laughter, her arms wrapped tight around her father's neck. They sat that way for a long moment, a circle of three.

He was an awful patient in the weeks that followed, refusing the bland diet and trying to get out of bed when he shouldn't. "I'm not a damned invalid!" he would bark at her when she tried to force more dry toast and broth. He was irritable and restless, but she took it as a good sign. He was recovering.

And that is when the nightmares started. He was still confined to bed when Ronnie Clarke appeared one afternoon with a briefcase gripped in one hand. Felicity led him to the guest room where she was promptly dismissed and the door closed behind them. Heinrich was always moody and distressed after these visits, short-tempered with her and Margaret. Then at night she would hear him crying out in pain, followed by a stream of feverish, disjointed German. She would watch him from the chair by the bed, holding his hand and mopping his damp forehead until he eased again. The next day he would be quiet and withdrawn.

There were small triumphs, though. His mood improved when he was allowed to get out of bed. His appetite returned, and he took second and third helpings of everything, much to Margaret's delight. He had been thin, desperately ill, when he had arrived, and his clothes had hung off him like a scarecrow, but his long frame had begun to fill out.

He was eager to make up for the time he had lost with his daughter, and most afternoons, this powerful man who had once been the commandant of St. Gregory could be found sitting patiently at the little table and chairs in Charlotte's room while she entertained him with invisible cups of tea and biscuits.

It was late one afternoon when she had returned from the shops. It was Margaret's day off, and she climbed the stairs to his room to find it empty, the bed made. There was a moment of panic, and she searched the rooms for signs of him and Charlotte.

She found them in the garden. He was sitting there in a chair, dappled by the late afternoon sun, Charlotte curled up asleep on his lap wearing a tutu and her fairy wings. He looked down at her sleeping face with wonder in his eyes and he held onto her as if he were holding something fragile. One hand stroked her curls.

His blond hair had been ruffled by the breeze, and he looked happier than she'd seen him since he had returned. His eyes were clear and bright, and he had lost the dark hollows in his cheeks. He was almost himself again, she thought, and she stood watching them for a moment with tears in her eyes before he looked up at her with a smile. "I've just been treated to a most wonderful and unique version of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'. Unfortunately, the star fell asleep at the interval."

Felicity smiled and crossed over to them. Charlotte stirred, and Heinrich kissed her fingertips. "I never thought I'd have another child, let alone a daughter," he said.

"It suits you." There was a long beat while they watched her sleep. "Let's put her to bed. Can you manage?"

"She's my child. I can manage." He slid his hands under her knees and lifted her up. He winced and paused for a moment. The arm that had been broken in the camps had never healed properly, and it still caused him pain, but he gritted his teeth and cradled his daughter in his arms as he carried her upstairs to her bedroom. Felicity peeled the wings from Charlotte's shoulders while Heinrich held her up, and she murmured sleepily as her father laid her in bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. They watched her for a moment in the doorway. Heinrich slipped an arm around Felicity's waist and dropped a kiss onto the top of her head.

She shivered as his lips lingered there. She was happier than she thought she could be, but she would have to be content with these occasional and fleeting moments of physical intimacy. He had still been weak when he returned, and lovemaking had been out of the question. He was stronger now, and she could sense that the physical need of it was as intense in him as it was in her.

Still, there was something holding him back. Each night, they would part with a kiss that had grown more urgent these past few weeks. She would slip her hands around his neck to draw him in, but she was pushed back with firm hands on her shoulders and a mumbled good night as he headed to the guest room. She ached for him, for the feel of his arms around her, the solid, strong feel of his body against hers, but he was pulling away from her again, and she looked up at him with a sad smile. "I think I'll take a bath before we eat. I won't be long."

He nodded in response, and she turned down the darkened corridor towards her room. The bath had become her retreat, and she cried in frustration as she sat immersed in the soothing water.

Afterwards, she stood in front of the mirror, brushing her hair, her dressing gown hanging loosely from her shoulders. With a sigh, she slipped it off and reached for the dress she'd been wearing earlier.

She saw him then, standing in the doorway behind her, watching her reflection in the mirror. Startled, she gasped, but then she turned slowly towards him, her eyes on his without shame, and he watched her, his face a blend of desire and pain.

There was a weariness about him that she had never known on the island, but he was as handsome, as desirable as he had ever been, standing there in his white shirt, sleeves unbuttoned and rolled to the elbows. He was strong again, and she could see the hard sinews of his forearms.

She wanted him, and she stood silently beckoning him inside.

He lifted his hand and pushed the door fully open and then took a step in to her, his eyes questioning. She crossed to him, her arms open, and wrapped them around his neck, pulling him in to meet her inviting mouth. He kissed her, his lips soft and tentative against hers, and she let out an encouraging moan. He bent in closer, kissing her with more urgency, and she let her hands move up, tangling in his hair.

She could feel his breathing quicken, every nerve stood on edge as his hands slid across her damp skin and cupped her soft, naked breasts. "Yes," she moaned softly. "I love you. Please. Yes."

She slid her leg between his, and she could feel him respond against her. She wanted this, she was lost in it, feeling herself drift when she was jolted out of it with a pair of hands pushing her away and the kiss breaking its connection.

He stood in front of her, breathing heavily, his eyes cast down. "I'm…sorry."

"What's wrong?" She felt vulnerable, standing there naked, rejected by her lover. She turned her eyes away, not able to look at him. "Don't you find me attractive anymore?"

She could sense his frustration, hands jammed in his pockets to keep from touching her. "My God, how could you think that?" he groaned, his voice thick and low, aching with desire.

"Then what? What is it?" she asked tenderly and reached her hand out for him. He moved away and spoke with great difficulty.

"I cannot be who you need me to be, Felicity."

"And who is it you think I need you to be?" She reached out again and placed a hand against his face. His eyes were still cast down, but this time he didn't move away. "Please tell me."

"Look at me," he said, as if this was all the evidence she needed.

"I _am_ looking at you."

"_Don't you understand?_ I am not the man I was on the island. I can never be that man again." The painful words erupted from his chest, and he looked away in shame. "My body…it's weak…useless."

"What? Because you were shot? Because you can't lift your right arm over your head anymore?" She made a small noise of disbelief and circled her arms around his neck. "Is that all? Do you think I care about that? Do you think I want you any less?"

"How can you want me? The nightmares…" he said with a shame that sent a pang through her. "You deserve a whole man. Someone who can be strong for you."

She smiled and blinked back tears. "You just need time. You can have all the time you need. And none of us is the same. We can't be. Not after all we've been through. But I need you. I want _you_. Please." She pulled him in again, her mouth skimming across the whorl of his ear. "Do you still want _me?" _

"Yes. God, I want you." His voice was rough and yearning.

"I'm yours," she whispered again. "I'm yours."

She pulled him down towards her mouth, and this time he did not resist. The final wall of resistance had given way. "I need you, Felicity…I need you." There was a vulnerability in his voice she had never heard before.

"I'm here," she said. "I've missed you…love you…love you so much." His arms slipped around her waist as he kissed her hair, her mouth, her face, her words rambling and tumbling between his kisses.

They moved across the floor into the bedroom, and there was no hesitation now. She sat on the edge of the bed and unbuttoned his shirt. Her heart fluttered when she saw the jagged scar that twisted across his torso. He winced as she ran her fingers across it, but then she pressed her mouth gently against the scar, accepting him as he was now.

She lay back on the bed, reaching out a hand for him. There was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, but she pulled him down to her, taking his face in her hands. "It's all right," she whispered, and his mouth dropped down to hers, moving down her throat and covering her breasts.

"You are beautiful…so beautiful." She could feel her body melting into his as his hands, his mouth moved gently across her, finding their old rhythms after the long winter. And then it was as if they had never been apart, they moved as if in a well-practiced duet again.

No, it wasn't as it had been, she realised as he covered her body with his. It was richer, fuller, more tender.

He eased himself between her legs, his eyes never leaving hers. He paused, hesitating as he entered her, but then she curled her fingers against his back, urging him ahead, and he slipped fully inside of her. She arched her back, crying out and biting her lip as he glided above her. "I love you," he said, and she replied the same, their voices tumbling, blending, building until he let out his own cry and collapsed against her, burying his face in the curve of her neck. She held him tight there for a long moment before he rolled away, and they lay there tangled in the sheets, breathless, content.

He spoke after a long moment of silence, his voice low and uncertain. "Do you think you could be happy this way, Felicity?"

She sat up and looked down at him with a frown, pulling the sheet around her. He traced a circle on her back with his fingertips. "What way?"

"With me. Here in London."

"I don't care where we go. We can stay here. Or you can change your name to Henry Gardener and we can go live in the country, if you'd rather. We can go to Germany. We can go to Timbuktu for all I care. And I don't care what people think. I'm not leaving you ever again."

"Our sons…"

"Our sons are grown men. What we do isn't their concern."

He reached up and wove his fingers through her hair, pulling her gently down to him with a kiss. "I love you, Felicity. You and Charlotte. And I won't leave you. Not ever."

In the end they sold the house in Kensington and bought a place in the country but still within reach of London. There was a small vineyard and a lazy river flowed through it, and Heinrich said it reminded him of his estate on the Rhine. Some day he would take her there when the wounds of war had healed in his country.

He would always bear the scars of what had happened to him, but he grew stronger, mentally and physically, with each passing week. There were nights when she would hold him when he would wake from nightmares, but they gradually tapered off until undisturbed sleep finally returned. When the spring came, he was himself again, only softened by time and experience.

Philip finally came to see them there, bringing with him his fiancée, a funny, clear-eyed girl called Patricia who had been a nurse during the war. The conversation was strained at first, but Patricia was there to act as a buffer, and of course there was Charlotte, twirling and dancing and charming everyone.

Later in the evening, Patricia offered to take Charlotte up to bed as the men headed out into the cool night for cigars. Felicity watched them from the kitchen window as they stood there gesturing in the near distance, making plans, she knew, for a garden wall.

The war had finally ended for them, the island finally left behind. Perhaps the world no longer cared what they did. There was peace at last.

Some nights they would sit inside. They had bought a piano, and the sounds of Chopin would drift through the house. Other nights, they would stroll through the garden, Charlotte sitting astride her father's shoulders.

But most nights, Felicity and Heinrich would sit in the moonlight alone, together, listening to the wind in the vines.

**THE END**


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